Bearclaw Valley [m] feiticeira

The odor was unlike anything she had ever encountered before. Foreign and strange, with an edge to it she could not place. The silver fur of her older (by minutes) sister blocked her view, from staring into a pair of sockets, brimming with maggots and worms instead of eyes. Adalynn's shriek stirred something in her. Just enough for the golden ring of her hairs begin to prickle. 

In a flash, her look alike mother swooped in. Ushering the three sisters back with a clack of teeth. Miniature hackles still on end and thin lipped, Athella stepped back. Her bum knocking gently against a hock of her father, who had also arrived. 

The adults had their own opinion on the severed head, all too aware of the dangers infested deep in it's flesh. Availta had her own opinion too. Though she lacked the capacity to understand what this danger meant, Athella's instinct kept her on edge. 

She inhaled again. That smell. It was too sweet. Too rotten. It wasn't right. 

Her face was taut, head hunkered low in suspicion. She uttered one word. "Wrrunng."