Blackfeather Woods a distant ship smoke on the horizon

By some stroke of luck, a small number of her caches had remained unsullied by wildlife or other wolves. She had used the hollows in trees to tuck things of interest away: pretty flowers, shards of bone, pebbles—most importantly, though, medicines. And of the utmost import—

Ah, she breathed with relief, finding a smattering of poppy seeds scattered within the detritus. Carefully, she stuck out her tongue. One, two—mustn't take too many—she must look awfully silly, head stuck inside a trunk, reared up on her hindquarters. . .

Maegi gingerly pulled away, the cold air on her face once more and the seeds balanced against the tip of her tongue. Three; she had counted three. Three was enough. Four would send her into sleep, but she didn't want to sleep; with sleep came dreams, and all of her dreams were of terror.

Three. Enough to not feel. Enough to dull the voices of the dead and departed that whispered constantly in her ear.

She swallowed and took a deep inhale, sucking the cold of early winter through her nostrils. It was a shock to her lungs, but not unexpected. Everything was dying, and soon snow would fall. Her lithe frame and silky pelt had never taken well to the season. Perhaps she could hibernate with Titmouse somewhere, like the bears did.

Calm. . .come down like a blizzard's pale blanket. The seeds were working. Good.