Bearclaw Valley the sleeper

as war brewed between Ursus and their neighbors; as tensions rose beyond the valley's sturdy walls; as her brother recovered from his near-fatal wounds—Avicus grew.

the russet girl patrols at the mouth of the vale, spindly legs carrying her without hesitation from one edge of the cliffs to the other. she will never have the sturdy build nor great height of some wolves, instead resigned to average physique. her looks—her flaming pelt and cold midnight eyes—are what sets her apart. . .but looks do not, in fact, kill.

she has been training, though; practicing for the inevitable next conflict. she has taken in the scents of Easthollow and the pale giantess who'd harmed Aventus and committed them to memory—they are the enemy, now and forever. one day they will clash. one day she will fight alongside her mother and father, instead of being shuffled into the shadows.

and as she grows, so sooner does that day. 

Avicus draws a deep breath, lowering her head, skimming the earth with her muzzle. here are the odors of her family, and those who protect them. here is the beginning of their world and the end of the rest. they may not stand upon the earth supreme, but this valley—this sanctum sanctorum—is theirs and theirs alone.

and she will keep it that way, the youth thinks as she squats, leaving her scent along with the others. she has spent the better part of the day on guard, on watch, waiting—

for what—?

it doesn't matter. Avicus straightens up, standing tall, peering out over the meadow. her lack of patience in all else does not, in fact, extend to serving as steadfast sentry.