Dragoncrest Cliffs there are echoes of thundering hooves

She felt more alert and eager than she had since father had died and though there were times that she would pause and feel guilt over that, she mostly allowed herself to be consumed by her new tasks. It was the small seedling of anger in her chest— a development that she was unaware of— that drove her, that attracted her to the art of war. It promised a release that she didn't know, but felt she needed. War was something romantic to her now; a violent game of pretend, one without lasting damage, and something that did not actually occur in real life.

As keen as she was to begin sparring with her new pack mates, to learn to fight as she had so simply stated to Casmir, they were all busy with the business of settling in to their new home. Rather than dwell on that, she instead threw herself into a task that was typically reserved for the strong and athletic— a parallel to her role within Donnelaith as watcher of the forest— patrolling and marking the borders. She chanted softly beneath her breath as she did so, knowing that magick was not known to these wolves, but deciding that bolstering the invisible wall that protected their home with hexes against those that would do them harm couldn't hurt.