Gyrfalcon's Keep fool me once, strike one. fool me twice, strike three.

Harley did not do well without a purpose.

She was a pack wolf — always had been, ever since she was abandoned as a child and taken in by the frostbite group. The hoyden had been raised to value these bonds and defend them vehemently, so what she lacked in perspicacity, she made up for with earnest dedication and vigor towards guardianship. When she was younger, perhaps this zeal stemmed from a place of trying to prove one’s worth and a small part of her wanted it to tell her packmates thanks for taking me in, I know you didn’t have to, but at this point in her life her obligations had blossomed into a skill and passion that were as deeply tried to her being as was the need to hunt, or the need to sleep. 

But now she was alone, and there was nothing she could consider hers anyways. Here, there was nothing worth protecting.

Something kept her tied to coast, but Harley did not know what, nor did she question it. Her days were filled with an omnipresent sense of boredom, so she took to the heights of the nearby keep. A mountain it was not — oh, she knew mountains! — but the change in terrain provided something to do and the cocoa-dusted girl scaled the exposed rock with ease. Then, she settled herself upon the highest of the peaks and watched idly as some of the exceedingly timely Gryfalcons completed their northern migrations and resettled into their roosts.