Dahozhoni Meadow arco

The copper ridge spikes with dread, there is no time to find defense against a wolf,  as spent and vulnerable she is, like a tracked doe fallen in the open glen. When a woman’s voice splits the field the coy visibly loosens. She watches the flaxen stranger closely, nose pulsing between heavy heaves of chest, the tongue that lolled wetting with slaver. She had not eaten in days and the swashing groans of her watered belly said as much.

Eset had nothing to offer in the way of company. She draws her dusted legs up into her chest, exhaustion mingling with gratitude upon the pointed face.

“Thank you,” her voice is raw, she could think to say little else. A desperate thing.