Frostfire Ridge she wears the smell of blood and death like perfume

The trail she’d picked up let her in the opposite direction she’d desired, walking instead on slippery surface she hadn’t wanted to find. The luscious forest remain unseen, looking up the way she’d come in realization she’d gone too far to make it safely back up. Going down is the only answer, then circling back down to where she’d meant to be. Thuringwethil clings to what sturdy ground she can to ease herself down, stopping on the flatted ledge she can to take a break.

The sun barely breaks through the trees, leaving most of the ground frozen, and making it difficult to ever easily survive the terrain. With a heavy sigh, fighting away defeat, Thuringwethil looks down the next slow, a blanket of snow hiding a potential death trap  she’s unable to avoid. One step of her paw gives her the answer, nearly slipping entirely down the slope, but she’s clung the ledge enough to keep her steady on three legs long enough to back up.

She swallows the lump lodged in her throat and lowers to the ground, hefting a frustrated sigh.