Shadewood and the flame trees, they broke away

The sun is soft on the trees but even the slightest patch of sunlight throws the snowy ground into stark relief, brighter than a supanova and just as blinding for half a moment. 

Iskra isn’t sure of what to think of this place— these woods where the sun is brighter than home and the thickets of trees, ferns, bushes that smell so foreign that they are almost familiar to a sensitive nose. A sharp note of marking lingers in the area— a pack border that she dare not cross.

She’s never been a stickler for the rules— but some rules are not meant to be broken. 

With a inward sigh, she settles on her haunches and howls, a note of inquiry lilting through the air. 

And, she waits.

{I hope this is the right place!}