Bearclaw Valley death note

Set on 8/28, afternoon and after this thread. Goodbye my little heathen.

It was almost as though she were sleeping, the way she lay here now. Her white coat nearly cleaned off from the rains. Her delicate, little frame was curled up like one might in winter, with her body rounded as her muzzle tucked under the length of plush tail furs. And she had been cold, very cold. 

She had every intention of making her way back home, but she had become so tired, to warn with blood loss and travel even though Easthollow was not at all far. And then the rains picked up, a crack of thunder giving a sudden warning before the floodgates opened. She had no choice but to stop, to rest. 

Morning come and the adrenaline she had once held the night before had all but zapped her. She was worse even. How ever would she make it home? She tried to call, but the rains kept falling, drowning out her cries for help. Drowning out her plea for her little hellions of Ursus to come save her. She had to get home. 

So she walked. The heavy rains stinging her wounds, rushing the blood out of them, chilling her to her bones. But she had come this far and the towering rocks of Ursus lie just beyond. She had made it, she was home. Sure that she was safe now at the outskirts of the meadow, Rosina laid down to rest. But no saviors came, and she didnt wake up.

Ursus' little white witch was gone.

astara planned to visit wapun, perhaps scour more of the meadow for food. she did not expect to see Rosina, dead within their doorstep.

chilled by the rigidity of the woman, Astara nosed the grave cuts along the woman’s fur. the scent of the attacker still clung to the dampened pelt, though blood had been washed clean by the spray of rain.

Astara had never loved Rosina — had even been hatefully jealous of the witch’s favor with Merrick — but now a new form of rage coursed its way icily through Astara’s veins. In silence her gaze turned to Easthollow, her jaw set with unflinching animosity.

his single eye fell to the soaked alabaster pelt of the witch who had given much to ursus. it was not grief merrick experienced, but a dizzying spark of violence; it choked him, clawed at his throat.
the lopsided gaze shifted to his silent wraith; her muzzle and the inexorable, unflinching blaze of feral melonii wrath directed his own toward 
easthollow.
they had never come for a parley.
their wolves had clashed with those of ursus, as was the way, but now
death, and all the justifications for vengeance that followed.
merrick would follow the incensed corvid in whatever she meant to do next.

a vision then of easthollow:

stones toppled, dark red glistening along their granite surfaces

bodies with their throats exposed. indra, indra all over again --

astara closed her eyes as merrick came near, finding the furnace of his orange gaze blazed equally as intense.

come hell or high water,  easthollow would pay.

astara swore upon it.