Bearclaw Valley So raise your glass now and celebrate exactly what you've done.

making some assumptions and being vague

she's laid low since the man had gone after her mother, unsure of what to think. on the whole, she is glad it is handled. but there's still a part of her that thirsts for. . .more. she can't sate it. she chases small game, increasingly larger game—she gnaws upon her own growing paws, sometimes drawing blood.

it isn't the same. nothing brings the thrill that was knowing a life ebb away into death, a pulse fading upon her tongue.

but then—maybe. she spots the boy from a short distance away, headed into the copse. a buzzing excitement fills her stomach as she follows, the hair upon her spine aloft. he would be an easier target than the lanky cad who'd dared to touch Astara.

but another smell fills her nostrils: that of the not-wolf, the kind man, who'd long since left the valley. it lingers here; this must have been his den. 

friend, Avicus remarks, repeating a word Jaylen had taught her and hoping to startle the younger boy. she, too, stares into the dark hollow, a gaping maw of possibility. she does not draw alongside him but remains behind, eyeing the place where his neck meets his shoulders.

so fragile.