Stone Circle You know it's heartbreak

She walks along an overgrown footpath, fur tugged at by spreading briers, drawing an atlas in her mind of the strange lands. So much green, no snow in spring. Even her coat knew to be shed away as days grew longer and the sun heavier.

There’s a flicker of movement as the wood parts, and there stands a dark lady in the crest of an old hovel. She stills. Bjarna’s scent here is faded.

She chuffs at the unknown woman with a bristling ridge, a barest greeting to alert her of her presence if she had not been scented earlier. Kvarsheim, it seems, is expanding by the day. She is growing reluctantly more accustomed to strange faces in these still-strange lands.