Bitterroot Valley by my own will

was lost but i'm here now — vague timeline!

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gjalla passed through the vale like a shadow given shape, a toned frame slicing through the land with a familiar, unsparing grace—purposeful without direction, but powered all the same. the morning was still young enough that the air bit at the edges of her nose, and her paws pressed damp prints into the earth.

the scent of blood was faintly sweet on the breeze, a metallic tang of slightly stale hare. it was not alone; close with it was wolf—woman, basked in driftwood and sea lavender. she kept her distance at first, half-shrouded by the rise of a moss-covered stone.

the figure ahead hadn't moved much, and the posture was... prayerful.

for a long moment, the woman said nothing at all—merely stood, stared on until the woman was finished. gjalla was not one to interrupt prayer. at last, her voice came like gravel dragged over frost.

“who do you pray to?”