Kintla Flatlands wrought in stygian visions

With a steady pace, Echelon came weaving naturally through the dense wood. The terrain was of varied level, dipping and rising at times in jagged form. It was terrain that she was comfortable in, terrain that made her pick and choose where to go and how to handle the damp snow at her feet. Melting snow, she was willing to venture, as though perhaps winter's hold was willing to let go of everything. So focused in her task to move onward, Echelon didn't spy out the silvery glimmer of someone watching her, someone who had gone on alert that she was beginning to stray very close to somewhere she shouldn't have been.

It was the fact that she was dwindling close to a pack that made her move with some haste, with some sort of hope that she would not draw unnecessary attention to herself. Echelon did not want the ire of creatures far more well-fed and kempt than she. Weariness had clouded her judgment thoroughly; an Echelon of the past would have veered well away from a pack, unless she was willing to be antagonistic.