Ankyra Sound homing signal among stars

the morning was early, the sun had yet to even rise in the distant horizon when ocelot awoke. she stirred from slumber and, not an idle woman by any means of the word, set off to tend to typical pack duties. border patrols were never her favorite thing but they are a necessary evil and she is used to the routine that while the landscape and wolves are foreign to her is otherwise familiar. a small source of comfort used to distract herself from her internal worries over the guard but she assures herself that they are three most capable of taking care of themselves ad are fine to assuage her simmering guilt. a guilt not of her defiance and rebellion but of leaving without word — but the amazon woman tries not to let it consume her. it will fade, in time just as it always does.

she pauses during her rounds, head bowing to sniff curiously at the mingled scents of her new home and it's occupants both to assess it's strength and learn the basics about the wolves that are now pack mates to her. the markings are strong enough but she adds her own scent to the mixture before she trots forward continuing in a similar pattern that switches between urinating, using the scent glands in her paw pads and rubbing alongside trees; one of which snagged a small tuft of fur in it's rough bark causing her to visibly wince and huff.

she hated the forests but she was there all the same, bent between tall thin figures of pale ash and the enormous boughs of chestnut sequoia. even in the winter where the cold stripped the world of its lushness the forest thrived; the sequoias may have been grimly naked but the smaller denizens of the forest were in silvery-green bloom. blue-green firs weighed down by snow. thick brown brambles with bright crimson berries in their prickly fold.

caiaphas made her way along the perimeter, contributing her own markings intermittently as she went. the borders were fairly well reinforced and the sylph turned her attention inward where the dark silhouette of a wolf flittered through the pale morning rays.

she stopped and regarded the figure silently; the glare was too intense for her to make out the soft cardinal of her fur, or the sharpness of her features. quietly she walked towards the woman, her mien composed and footsteps unhurried.

halfway through her approach the scarlet woman turned, and unwilling to press further, caiaphas altered her course for the thick copse. in retrospect the salt-wretch was not in the most affable of moods, and stormily she dragged her heels through the dark thicket, her nose low to the ground.

she would spend her time rousing the snow for any sign of lichen or moss -- her small den in the grotto was mostly bare, and she spent the rest of the afternoon ferrying frozen clumps of moss into the grotto's depths.