Rising Sun Valley skwila

The herd migrated. Anselm followed them, hyperfocused on knowing their destination. He did not want to return to Sleepy Fox Hollow, not yet. A bitter tincture settled in his stomach to think of the women there, getting close to Etienne.

And rather than voice these feelings in a healthy manner, Anselm chose avoidance.

The scent of the herd faded near a cold stream. Anselm caught another scent on the wind - the woman from the summit.

An odor lingered like lightning smoke, burning the edges of his nose. A sweetness to it, but an anger too. He stalked close, eyes hard as he drank from the stream, feeling the ice as it chilled his throat and stomach.