Ghost Lion Crag xxxxv. it's a waste of time

The herdstalker was busy investigating the marred trunk of a tree when he came upon her, its bark rough and ragged where one of the territory's big cats had sharpened its claws by raking them along the trunk. Lótë shuddered to think what a mountain lion might be able to do her, reminding herself to be vigilant. That was what prompted her to scan her surroundings -- optics of light emerald locking on a flicker of movement as the shadows shifted and the wind brought a familiar scent to her.

"Raimo," she greeted with a vague hint of surprise once he had revealed himself, feeling again that familiar sting of guilt. She told herself that she hadn't played any part in his leaving the village but still, she wondered. Perhaps if she'd just agreed to be the former sivullik's second, he wouldn't have dispersed from their tribe. But then again, she might not have been set to wed the current huntmaster if that was the case. Perhaps the same spirits that had spoken to Adrastus when he hunted the lynx had woven their fates together in such a way.