Hideaway Strath toying somewhere between love and abuse

for merc trade :3 (lots of tags for reference: @Kynareth Deagon, @Nyra, @Derg, @Simmik)

Her wounds prevented her from sparring, at least until they healed enough that she could walk comfortably again and the scabs weren't so fragile. This did not mean, however, that the medic intended to give up her indoctrination as a warrior. Instead she settled for what might've been considered lighter work for a Guardian, patrolling the borders of the Strath. The day dawned cold and crisp, a gentle snow filtering through the canopy of the evergreens and the bare branches of broadleaf alike as the ghostly waif trotted amongst their trunks -- marring the fresh accumulation of virgin snow with her soft footsteps. 

The wolfdog trailed along the outskirts of the land, including the Ravine within their territory as she encircled the Saint's claim, sniffing at the scent markers that had been placed. Many were fresh and recognizable -- most of them Kynareth's -- but some were faded, a few even comprised of the last tendrils of a stranger's perfume. Wolves who had either left or vanished from the packlands. 

Aerin felt she had been here long enough to be properly cloaked in the scent of the Saints and doubted there would be any objection to the aspiring Blade adding her own layer of odor to the boundaries -- and if there was, they could right piss off (unless they were Kynareth, Nyra, Derg, or Simmik).  As such, she took to refreshing the boundaries: rubbing herself over tree trunk and shrubbery, urinating occasionally as she moved along.