Stone Circle Little hawk

Downed leaves crunch under soft footfalls as the nornir lets her chin hover over the rise beside her son.

“Turtles," she gives him an adoring look, "and I don’t know.” Her brow puzzles over the set of her eyes. By now Swift may have realized that this mother made for a pretty poor huntress and the support of the pack had spoiled her skills but she was determined not to muddy his view of her.

“Seas weeds, perhaps.” She had no honest idea but it sounded sensible. “Maybe rowanberries, let's lay a trap,” she suggests, easing back off the bank to have a look about.