Bearclaw Valley i drove to the mountain and a hole in the ground

nothing could slow the titanic leap of astara's stride, the earnest seeking of her gaze -- nothing at all could slow that rush of mother's instinctive urgency. avicus! home! her scent hung like ornaments across a garland of cold snow.

and then came the view of her daughter, red against a carpet of immaculate white. astara rushed headlong into the embrace, colliding messily without care for her life or limb. she pressed her nose all over, taking stock of both avicus' loss of condition, the scent of fading illness around her like a light shawl.

an apology spilled between them but astara did not care; no apology was needed when her daughter returned home alive. it mattered little where avicus had been -- she was here now. alive. home. in that moment astara was loathe to retract from her or release her once more, for fear she might lose avicus again, for real this time.