Lake Rodney you are not the battlefield where the bodies fall

awkwardly closing with permission

Near the other end of the lake she finally spots the figure. Dark fur a blemish against the white background, mirroring her own imagine from a distance. Any movement forward is halted, tail idly swishing behind her. Not feeling particularly social, uncertain if the wolves in this area outside of the redhawks, and the few moonspear wolves she’s run into, she decides against pursuit. Thuringwethil licks her lips and slowly takes a step back, retracing her steps around the southern border until she’s clear from view.