Blackfeather Woods nothing but the burnt edge of an unfinished history

She had been lucid only because there were little poppy seeds left for her to binge on. She found their supply dwindling day by day by day; scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel. And she had become angry, not only at herself but at the wolves around her, who she in part blamed for the seeds' quick disappearance. Though most of her anger came from the sudden withdrawal, her brain pounding, demanding more of the opioids. Her body gnawed on her from the inside out.

So it was surprising that she was found so far from the Glen. Not out of any maternal attachment to her children, surely not, but from her desire to find more of the new vice that she had latched onto, her only saving grace after her recent birth.

A voice calls to her, and she wonders if she hallucinating. Atli. He had come here once before, with a promise of protection. Then he had left without a trace, leaving her vulnerable, susceptible to Cicero. She answered his howl with a snarl, her body trundling over to the voice's origin point, gaunt and wild-eyed.