Hideaway Strath salt, sweat, sugar on the asphalt

Smeared blood of a sacrifice made earlier in the equinox stained select surfaces along the border. Whether on wood or stone, the sanguine murals conveyed a wordless message to the Wilds that was much stronger than any scent marked along the perimeters.
 
The painted crimson did not seem to faze her, even if it was from the blood of another wolf.
 
To be saintly was to be acknowledged as virtuous and regarded as being in heaven after death. That was just one of the definitions of the word and seemed to be fitting for Zsuzsa’s circumstances. This was the nirvana she sought after. To bring virtue and purpose to her life again. What was of her previous life and past, she laid to rest. Escorted by the Grandmaster himself, he was the beacon of light where she had been at her darkest; figuratively and literally, as the two met each other in the throes of a dark cave. Even now, Zsuzsa kept her habit of lurking during the midnight hours. She was surveying areas alone around the Strath to make a potential den out of. It would certainly take time to become acclimated to socializing again fully but was ready to reintroduce herself into a hierarchy again.
 
The Raven lingered overhead, occasionally hopping from branch to branch in the partially forested area, even during these late hours. As largely disengaged as she had been toward the Raven, a part of her was glad something, even if it was another creature, was bearing witness of her transformation from lone wolf to pack wolf again. As abnormal as it was for the Raven to even be active during these hours, there was a solace felt from it watching her from afar. There could very well be other hidden eyes not of a beady gaze observing her from the shadows as well, but Zsuzsa paid no mind even if there was. She surveyed a dugout beneath a large tree and nimble paws worked diligently, quietly, digging at the soil.