Firefly Ravine borðaðu rassinn minn

The watchful brothers had added more to their small group—the expansion indicating to the she-wolf that whether they intended to or not, a pack would be formed from it. It was what she had wanted—a home. Hearth and family. Yet, the ugly white noise of her unworthiness clouded her mind from time to time, and so the silver arrow made herself scarcer from the group itself, pushing herself to scour the lands for potential herbs and plants—a garden to grow once the snow had come and gone from them.

She might not have been much use with physical brutality—not that she was unwilling to learn—but Meadow knew the very rudimentary art of healing and was eager to expand this knowledge—particularly with the assumption that the stoical wolves of the Keep would be taking mates and reproducing this year.

A delicate paw lifted, shifting the dying weight of rotting ferns, inspecting closer to the dirt beneath. There was potential here—but she had much to learn. And even much more to grow into.