Sleepy Fox Hollow By thee, old Capulet, and Montague

"Your friends," Snowe repeated, wariness creeping up inside her. In her haste to greet this wolf, she hadn't taken the time to think about the implications of rushing headlong into an unknown territory. Were these friends the girl's pack, and was Snowe intruding on occupied ground?

Still, the woman was friendly enough. She spoke with a voice that carried an accent; the common tongue was not her first language, but she was doing admirably at carrying on the conversation. If any wolves appeared and showed signs of menace, Snowe would bolt.

Her face grew a little sad as the brown female remarked on her scars, in an almost childlike manner, though she kept her smile, shaky as it now was. "Sometimes," Snowe responded. "But I'm from the north--I can handle the cold."

A beat or two passed before she realized the implications of what she had just uttered. I'm from the north. Snowe had never said the phrase before, but it came as easily to her tongue as "Hello." I'm from the north. Had she said this many times before, and only now was realizing it?

I'm from the north. Was she, truly? From the north? It was a small beacon of light in the darkness of her mind, and Snowe grasped it greedily, holding it like a talisman.