Bearclaw Valley rotting oranges

She had wandered and explored and observed, finding the claim of the cult broad and varied, the Valley its center and crown of jagged teeth. There was old magic at work here, she could see it in the stones standing guard about old ritual grounds, in the bubbling of the blessed brook, in the curses the foxes slung at her, alarmed and confounded by the not-bear not-wolf's calm presence.

Unfortunately, her exploration left her with no room for customary greetings. The scent of others was present, yes, but sadly... meagre. How few were part of this clan? From the he-wolf who led here there - Merrick, Bruin-witch, bear-priest, Báleygr - she thought the faith in their beast lord strong, their dens crowded with believers, shrines erected on every ley-line.

It was not so. At least, that was the truth the thin border marks and few tracks spoke of.

He found her returning from the meadow, intent to for once rest among her cousins, perhaps ask for a meal, if they found her worthy. The Witch looked every bit as holy as when she first saw him. 

Bernadette bowed her head in greeting.