Hoshor Plains on the forefinger of an alderman

@Moath

She spends some time around the place where she had found her grandson, and then departs again, headed toward the line of mountains on the horizon. They rise up high and foreboding as she enters the plains, a dark blotch against the pale, empty expanse. Her indigo gaze takes in the herd of buffalo, looking for weaklings.

Not that she could take one down alone—she never could have, anyway. Just out of habit, and the amused hope that one might choose to suddenly drop dead.

The old seductress trots up a rise, ebony pelt lifting on the wind. Her breath fogs on the air as she stops and surveys the land. It is too open here for her taste; she prefers more cover, and hopefully will find it in the mountains. But she is tired, and will rest here a while.

Gone are the days where she can travel without stopping. With age has come some ugly truths.