Moonspear my lord: the king is dead

It was with no great fanfare and with much pique that Madhuri Rhian verch Taliesin of White Spine—the last part tacked on all too reluctantly—strode toward the mountain, blue gaze trained toward its jagged peak. 

"This is the land of your grandfathers, fy merch. It must be you to go."

In that moment, Madhu had wondered whether she'd been too hasty to depart from White Spine. She'd been asking herself that question ever since.

But Taliesin's word was not to be denied, even by the strongest-willed lady in the land. So she'd gone, mumbling to herself, living off small game and recoiling at the state of herself—tousled pelt, muddy paws, burrs and thorns in the crevices. As soon as she could, she would desperately seek out a bath.

For now, though. . . She heaved a sigh and howled, voice echoing off the slopes of Moonspear. 

I have news, she'd announced, for those who lead this place.