Hushed Willows saihs

@Reverie let me know if this doesn't fit your timeline; backdated to ??? whatever works.

There was a passage along the mountainside which might have been too narrow for a wolf, but was adequate for something like a dog to traverse. It was harrowing from time to time, with sudden sharp turns and steep views, especially when climbing headfirst down through the pines. Thankfully Edith was low-bodied enough, and graced with the sloped hindquarters oft found in her breed, keeping her from standing too tall in moments she needed to hug the curve.

When the land leveled out again, it was at an odd angle. She had to scramble to an adjacent ledge, then cut across exposed roots which gripped the hillside like a knot of fingers. From there she caught her breath, panting heavily, and tried to reorient herself; but this place looked utterly alien to the dog, who until now was accustomed to pinewood, exposed stone, and fern bed.

Here, the trees were tall enough to stoop. They carried tendrils of whip-like, tangled growths. Maybe at some point in the year they'd be beautiful — but not with winter coming. There were no leaves on the trees, no flowers, and nothing in the scent to indicate life. This was only the beginning of winter; to Edith who had never experienced anything like this, it looked and felt like something long ruined.

She began to stalk among the trees, wary, and careful. There was a subtle sound here which she could not put a name to — but it was the wind sighing through those hanging heads, and nothing more.

It was odd to be back in this place. Odd, but not painful. This was the home she'd built with Boone, yes, and the place where she'd lost him forever — but it was also where her daughters had been born. Where she'd met Dusty Rose. Where she'd come into herself, her own power.

It was odd, too, to see another dog roaming the willows. Reverie halted where she stood, ears tall. Hello, She called out, at once intrigued by the prospect of meeting another of — her kind? Not truly, but closer than any purebred wolf, she thought. Her mother wasn't the same kind of dog at all, but there was a kinship to be found all the same. Her tail swayed slowly behind her.

It did not occur to Edith to wonder what this place might be like in other seasons. In the city there were no seasons. It was either hot, mild, or cold. The sky was bright, or it was dark. Rarely had she been left outside of a suitably warm shelter, and never before had she gone without regular meals. To think that the world changed when she wasn't privy to those changes, that was a thought which had never occurred to her. In the spring this hillside and these willows would be in their full glory—and Edith would likely never know to return. A tragedy.

Her initial inspection took her full attention, so she did not notice the glimmer of light among the tree trunks, or the shifting of a sunlit body as another person took notice of her; muddy, dreary Edith, ugly unkept unsuitable Edith; then with one subtle motion—of a long and bushy golden boa of a tail—the woman's focus recentered.

The stranger was as different from her as could be possible. Taller, and leaner. Bright and warm in coloration, with a curious expression. Opposing this was Edith's dark-capped frown and stiffening posture, her limp tail, and immediate caution. The ochre of her brows fidgets, as if her face cannot decide on which emotion was appropriate.

Hello, she returned the greeting, unsure if she should continue to explore or not. The way back up the mountainside would be difficult but not impossible. She could recall the way; but it was a matter of speed between the two of them, and intention if the stranger saw fit to chase her.