Dragoncrest Cliffs prophet margin

The growl died in her throat when he spoke, insisting he was friendly. She scowled, though it wasn't directed at him but rather what he'd said. The wives? she mouthed. She didn't have a clue who he meant by that, though evidently he knew something about her. Perhaps he could help her put the pieces of this puzzle together.

"I don't—I have no idea what you're talking about," Haunt admitted, too thrown by everything to say anything cleverer. "I just woke up here and I have no idea where here even is. And I don't remember how I g—"

She didn't bother attempting to raise her head until she heard footsteps. Artemis? she thought, every movement calculatedly ginger to avoid triggering more pain. But the goddess had vanished. Standing in her place was a smaller, darker she-wolf with fur the color of tree bark. This comparison felt particularly apt when taking into consideration the scars roughening her edges. Haunt's eyes tracked over them slowly before raising to a pair of narrowed golden eyes set just below an ear cut to ribbons.

The memory simply whooshed in like the wintry wind. Haunt blinked, recalling the scarred she-wolf now, though if she'd ever gotten a name or any identifying information, she didn't remember it now, much less make the connection that she might be one of the aforementioned wives.