The Heartwood Hopping through the forest

Blanc wonders if the forest feels. She wonders if it feels the softness of her furs as she moves beneath particularly low boughs, the toughness of her spine, the fortitude of her body. Blanc also wonder if the forest knows; if it hears. It is silent, now; she can hear her footfalls, hear the breath that clouded around her face. Her heartbeat, too, she can hear; but the forest is nothing. No rustling breeze to move it, to force it to speak or sing. The french woman feels as though if it could do one thing, it could see. She felt as though the tall trees were watching now, her passage safe and clear. But if it could see, it would also have seen the demise of many an animal, prey and her kind alike.

They were made for the kill. But everything must die. Even wolves.

The scent of another is carried on the wind. She is not sure what it is yet; it could be prey, or perhaps wolf. She is too far to know. And so the white wolf moves toward the strange scent, strides long, head high. Blanc was swift, and would find the source of this scent soon enough. As she moved closer, she would be able to identify it so long as the other did not move downwind so she was not so oblivious as to what she would run into. For now, she had the shelter, the protection, of the trees; neither of them could see the other, but in time, Blanc would break free of the protective hideaway, and although due to her white furs and the snowy ground she would be seen.