Big Salmon Lake and if onlys, alongside could've beens

Skittering precariously over gravel, a flash of shimmering white was all to be seen of the girl as she lurched to a halt, sides heaving as she tucked herself from view beneath the shelter of a rotting log. 

Her prize still hung in her jaws, an autumn-fattened squirrel, its body disfigured by the trap-jaw clench of her maw as she'd made her dash for freedom. It was unlikely that her catch would be going anywhere anytime soon; yet, Dwyn's canines ground together around the small body - as if reassured by the vise-like state of her jaws sealed around it.

Small tufts of ivory, not unlike the feather-soft wings of a moth, fluttered atop her head, soft and coated in downy wisps like that of a dog. Hyper vigilant, they swiveled in all directions much as her sugared optics did - bright, alert with a gleam of unchecked anxiety shining within them as they wheeled from tree to tree searchingly. 

For several long moments, the Druid crouched low, hidden, with the game tucked possessively against her starshine-streaked chest. When at last the panic within began to abate, and the soft chirping of woodland creatures assured her none had pursued, the wolfdog dared to slip from her secretive nook beneath the fallen Ancient - her rosebud nose brushing against its mossy grain tenderly as she passed. 

The Dragonborn had not the courage to hang about, the coyote band hadn't followed - or so it seemed - but perhaps they were on her trail at this very moment, tracking down the thieving wolf who'd snatched a morsel from their traps. 

Shame curdled in her guts, recalling Emira and the horrid tales she'd been regaled with as she recovered - of the plights of coyotes and the halfbreed children they sometimes sired with her dam's kind. The Druid could envision the embittered, disappointed look that would etch onto her idol's stony features but guilt would not help to fill her belly. 

On the banks of a frigid lake, its edges ringed by a crust of ice, the wanderess halted abruptly and dropped the game upon the cold earth unceremoniously. Without bothering to sit or stretch out comfortably, she bent and tore into her meal whilst trying not to think about Emira. 

Harder to sneak up behind someone, harder to get the drop on them if they never allowed themselves to lower their guard - even for a moment to eat.

tags for reference.

though typically lake rodney — besides broken antler fen, of course — is praimfaya's usual haunt she decides to stretch her legs further. another month older, she thinks. another month older and now an orphan. the fresh grief of ingram's death couples with the rehashed grief of blodreina's — for praimfaya had never actually coped, instead she just buried all that pain and anger into building roangeda — and she fixates on hunting the rusalkan crone. it was unlikely the woman was to blame for her father's murder but even so there was already several bones to pick with her and her pack.

despite that, after informing @Dacio and @Aleks she was stepping out for a bit, praimfaya is not hunting the crone presently. rather, she seeks to keep a close eye on the going-on's of the wilderness. though the worlida is still a leader-in-training beneath dacio's tutelage she knows she has to remain one step ahead. she is young and because of that not always taken as seriously as she'd like to be. it was unfortunate, but not something she can necessarily blame others.

still, there is no evidence of large prey. the herds that don't migrate still appear to avoid the wilds like the plague and the frosty chill that has settled in the air doesn't bode well. ahead, praimfaya can see the banks of big salmon lake and averts her course in the hopes of stopping to get a quick drink. it is as she nears, the scent of fresh blood penetrating her revere and the vision of living snow tearing into her meal. though she wishes otherwise, praimfaya's stomach rumbles to spite her.

she missed the deer and there was a part of her that thinks she would be gluttonous when the winter herds returned. she would ensure that roankru were not hungry again.

to the snow woman in the distance, praimfaya lets out a low, cautious chuff of greeting and strives to draw no nearer in the uncertainty of how possessive of her kill the stranger would be.

nanowrimo: 349