Deepwood Weald maybe september, the year you believed in me

The Weald draws her in again, this time in search of something rather specific: wild garlic. The nature of the forest alone can't conceal one's tracks entirely, she knows — and spring is here, which gives some advantages. While the scent may not be the most pleasant, it'd certainly be less recognizable than pack-scent. She keeps her nose low as she searches for the early shoots, and eventually she comes across a different scent entirely. Wolf. She snorts, pace picking up as her route changes to follow the trail, however tricky it may be. Eventually, the scent grows fresher, and she knows she's close. Her steps slow, soft and nearly silent in the early morning haze, and she chuffs to call for the other's attention, ears perked as she scans the area.