Blackfeather Woods drunk and driven by a devil's hunger.

she does not think young children could survive long outside the borders of their pack. having seen the litters born within the haunted wood, she knew firsthand their fragility. and yet, she had been markedly young when she'd fled the wood, and here she stood. her ears flicked, wondering if the myth she chased lived and breathed somewhere, out there, or had been reduced to little more than the unyielding markers of once life as lay at her feet. 

the commander issues an observation hela accepts with a dip of her muzzle. "mine became a position no longer worth defending," she admits, "I left the nightwalkers a few weeks back." or had it been months? without the constraints and responsibilities of a pack, times seems to run differently. 

muzzle motions toward the silverlit woman. "I don't recognize the scent you carry." it seemed the commander's allegiances were no longer the same, either, the woman's auds swept forward in query.