Deepwood Weald do you ever feel like a plastic bag?

well, she said. fuck.

magpie corvidae xiii was utterly and hopelessly lost. she thought she was a well-trained tracker, living among her nomadic familial pack. they were not unused to venturing into unknown places, and frequently navigated across difficult terrain. and yet— lost.

this forest had looked unremarkable from the outside, but beneath the canopy a thick fog clouded any visual cues. her scent, the usual thread leading back to wherever she had come from, stayed close to her body and couldn't seem to penetrate the mists. nor could she see much sunlight breaking through the trees, which would have been an indication of the forest's edge, a clearing, or (most helpful) higher ground. fuck, fuck, fuck.