Swiftcurrent Creek the guardian

[size=x-small]She is near the borders but not too close to them yet
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She snuffled along the fading trail of an ermine, having no name for the beast but hunger, and blood. Her fellows seemed to have fallen away; she had not seen Dogmeat in some time, though she valiantly tried to keep track of his scent. Having managed only to find scant bits of prey, and carrion fallen along the wayside, the Rottweiler's massive bulk was beset with gauntness, and her cheeks had hollowed in her caved face, giving her a fearsome and unholy appearance.

Her limp had not disappeared; it had lessened, but lack of nutrients to mend the flesh had left her with a wound that, despite her careful cleanings and the cold atmosphere, was growing warm with infection.

The female faced into the gently blowing snow, brow furrowed with the attempt at deciding to cross into the woodland, over the invisible line heavy with the scent of wolves, or press on, perhaps to her doom.