Bearclaw Valley some kind of metal made up from glue

a new scent hung in the wind, of spring — and something else. astara had come across the notes of wolves in season here and there in these coming weeks, taking pains to avoid them where she came across them. occasionally she would jealously check to see @Merrick had not come across these markings — so far, she could tell he had not. 

now, that scent came to her. 

she rubbed roughly against a bough in the forest, attempting naively to rid herself of the unusual bouquet. it was a troubling scent — she wanted little to do with it. when that yielded nothing save a soreness to her shoulders, astara sank into the snow and drew a mound to her chest, biting the dimpled snow with vented yet absent frustration.