Phoenix Maplewood and I couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted.

her return is slow, yet her head is raised stiffly as she picks her way towards their gathering point. steps are too stiff, and her usual lightness is gone as gravity seems to drag her down more than it had before. she accepts whatever happened at the river's edge grimly and without the wild grief that now usually accompanies such a blow. 

her summons for @Aditya are quiet and fall quickly into silence, and she sits heavily on the morn-chilled earth. there's an edge to the grey dawn that rises above the trees, a cold edge that brings warning of the season's change to come. her thick mantle is no longer capable of covering angular features and jutting hips, only more apparent as a drizzle begins drumming atop the dying canopy, plastering down her fur as she sits, waits.