Moonspear witches brew

Chilly rain sprinkled the mountainside, which made for slippery footing. Surefooted as any mountain goat, Tiuttuk navigated along a familiar footpath, her mood light despite the dreary skies. Moonspear was peopled again, with hope for a flourishing village rising like a proverbial phoenix from the ashes.

Speaking of birds, she halted and looked upward, yellow eyes slitted against the rainfall as she watched Wyvern circle lower and lower. Pie braced her weight and shut her eyes to avoid the brush of the nighthawk’s feathers as she landed astride her spine. The wolf turned her head and smiled in amusement as the nightjar shook out her wet feathers.

Doesn’t that seem kind of… Treepie mused, her words trailing off with a light laugh and shake of her head as she faced forward and continued her careful walk.

Wyvern’s swaying weight was as welcome as the wolves roosting somewhere in these dripping crags. Tiuttuk kept her eyes peeled, hoping to cross paths with a new face or an old one. She wasn’t picky and felt more social—more upbeat, generally speaking—than she had in quite some time.