Overture Downs Cassiopeia

dating this forrrrr hm... the 20th? let me know if that works for you, me!

it was not often that wren parted from silvertongue. ash paw did what she could, as did wren; she hunted for her, gave medicine, slept at her side. talked to her. held her. hoisted her while she began to find her steps again. all of the things one was meant to do for their — girlfriend? not-girlfriend?
in a rare window of time where she was not tending to the sharpfang, wren paced beyond riverclan's border. she had grown restless, having not stretched her legs in days, and so she wandered. today's choice was the meadow, for she had never truly seen it in all her forays within these lands.
it is vast and empty; little else aside from cold, dead marshland grass. a small stream made more of mud than water cuts through rather garishly, and the finches who she imagined usually perch along the treetops seem to all have left in droves for somewhere warmer. but there is someone here.
between rows of cattails is a lanky, chestnut-dappled broad. not girl, not woman. wren could not recall if they had crossed paths before.
if you're trying to find lunch, there's not jack shit out here, she calls in rusty greeting, tail swaying up over her haunches into her own attempt at a friendly wave. unless you like to eat rats.