Redhawk Caldera my toes is froze.

The deepening snow didn’t equate to a shortage of prey, so Sassafras had continued with her hunt that day just long enough to snag a marten that was after a tunnelling vole. So consumed with its own hunt, the animal had leapt from some burrow tucked beneath the freshly laden flakes and the she-wolf had immediately pounced. It was her first kill in a few days and it filled her with a tremendous sense of predatory satisfaction in a right-place, right-time stroke of luck.

With a reclaimed, proud little swagger that had become unusual for the once characteristically confident female, she re-traced the deep-seated imprints of her own leggy stride back towards the cave. Just as she arrived, though, a collapsing roar began to plummet from high up on the mountain face with such frightening ferocity that she nearly ran away instead of descending into the darkened depths of the rocky Redhawk hideaway. The avalanche nearly crushed her hind end entirely as she narrowly squeezed inside the opening of their quarters.

She’d slipped and then sprawled spectacularly, releasing her kill as she’d less than expertly escaped the winter’s deadly wrath. As she collected herself and stood instinctively to shake the icy crystals from her fur, there it was, its bottle-brush tail sticking up like a tuft in the settled snow that had sunk inside. She snatched it up with a venomous gleam in her eyes, but ended up dropping it indignantly and simply leaving it there where it fell. Sassafras only had interest enough to move close to those who were stranded inside with her, lie down where her irritation would inevitably melt away, and discharge a heavy sigh.