Noctisardor Bypass You talk like a man and taste like the sun

Her first encounter with Rivenwood's wolves hadn't gone exactly poorly, as far as we currently know, which was more of a relief to Wylla than she would openly admit to anyone. It meant hope wasn't lost for her, despite the miasma of negative feelings that forever swirled in the pit of her stomach. It was enough to coax her out from the cavern in subsequent days so she could take time to map out the valley.

Presently, she was scraping her paws over a damp spot she'd left to mark an empty cache so the next wolf to come along wouldn't waste their time digging there. Satisfied, Wylla began to wind through the trees with her nose to the ground. A dull pain radiated from her shoulder with every step, and by now, Wylla was forced to acknowledge that it was permanent. There was no reason for it to hinder her, though. She told herself that fervently, and pushed herself when she knew she shouldn't. She hadn't let her eye hinder her and she wouldn't let this.

When she tracked down a bushy-tailed squirrel and tried to ambush it, she had to abandon the pursuit in under a minute, hissing at the way her shoulder tightened and ached. It wasn't ready for the strain, and she wasn't yet disciplined enough to know how to compartmentalize it. That would come with time, but not today. She dropped her haunches to the ground and panted in the oppressive summer heat, watching the tail disappear into the foliage with a frustrated growl.