Bearclaw Valley spirits of the dead

as if making up for lost time, she is in perpetual motion.

since returning to the valley and recovering from her infection, Avicus has been restless. the sight of Evien's corpse had made her even more so. her absence had been nothing but bad for Ursus, and so she now goes above and beyond her normal effort.

winter continues, though the snowstorms have abated. the caches need filled. there are less hunters now than ever before—the striking-eyed man, for instance, has gone. other faces, too. they are few in number.

sporting a still-prominent limp, she makes her way across the territory, keeping to the shadows of trees to remain hidden. her fiery coat against the snow only gives her away, a warning beacon to any nearby prey.

there had been bucks, before. where are they now? and their does, some, perhaps, pregnant. . .

Avicus stops at the edge of one of the copses, lifting her nose, tasting the air. naught but the scent of pine and chilly damp. maybe the deer have fled, and they will go hungry. 

(not, she vows fiercely, on her watch.)