Ghost Lion Crag shrike.

Dei's nose trailed along her shoulder as she breathed in the scent of her own fur. Her sisters' scents were fading. They traveled together though they took separate paths, always converging every few days or so to move as one before splitting again to pursue their own interests. It had been too long since their paths had merged. The alabaster and gold threads of her pelt carried only her own scents of frost and cedar and rose water. Strik's crackling smoke was faint. Rylan's cool breeze, barely there.

Deiyon gathered herself with a hard shake of her coat. She hadn't been raised to worry or fret like a weak-spined whelp. Artaax had raised all three of his daughters to be solid blades, just like himself and his mother before him. Wherever they were, they were fine. Or they weren't. It was beyond her control and not her responsibility anyway.

A harsh wind sent the winter's chill along her spine, driving Dei to move on. Had her father been one for details, she might have known now that the ground she walked upon was the same ground he had once traversed in despair after losing his mother. As it was, she had no idea she was even in the Wilds he had once called home. Since he'd sent her and her sisters away, their life had been nothing but ceaseless, aimless wandering. Artaax had believed whole-heartedly that the spirits would speak to his daughters and show them their path forward.

Deiyon, however, believed the spirits needed to speak the fuck up.