Blackfoot Forest cutting into flesh till the loop returns

Athalia hadn't meant to go so far from the den.
She wasn't sure how she got here in the first place. The trees contort, twist; they have faces, they have eyes, and she doesn't like looking at them.
She has not seen mother or brother in what she could only assume were a few hours, if she could tell time; and at some point, her stubby legs had taken her — here. Where was she? Where was here?
She is cold and she is hungry. The sun churns the sky to hues of scarlet and indigo; she is enthralled only momentarily. There are birds above her with starved eyes.
She is calm.

She'd left the Creek. Not forever, perhaps, but Mae needed a break. She wandered the valley aimlessly, not quite expecting to find anything but hoping for it nonetheless. Occasionally she heard Moss calling to her, from the swamp — but she ignored it fiercely.

And that was easy enough when she stumbled across a child. Mae stopped a distance away, squinting. Another sister? After a moment, she called out, Hey! and started to approach.

Hey!
Hey hey hey hey HEY
Her head whips around in one swift crack much like a bird's. A voice, a figure, someone she didn't know;
Who was this? Was this the — no.
She stares for a while, bewildered; head tilted, ears flipped. The birds are everywhere, now. Her nostrils flare as she croons a garbled sort of greeting in toddlerspeak. One paw flies to her mouth, and she begins to gnaw at her toes.
Where was she?

So young to be out here alone; Mae couldn't help but remember that night. Moss. The pale girl and the coyote woman. And that man —

A rustling somewhere in the woods behind her startled the Mayfair girl, and she leapt back with a snarl. All the fur lifted along her spine, and as the panic settled in she found herself lost to reason. Her gaze lingered on the dark youth only a few moments longer.

Then she turned and fled.

The figure, in its daunting midnight cloak, disappears just as fast as she had caught sight of it. It says nothing else to her.
Her fascination lingers until there is nothing left to focus on. Who was that?
One of the birds — scraggly, iron-eyed, impatient — flutters as it settles to the ground beside her. It pecks at something in the wildgrass with its beak of imperceptible dark, and it seems as if it has lost interest in her, too.
Her tongue pokes out as she settles into a crouch, and then a lay; and then her head hits the cool evergreen. Should she call for @Mira?

if either of yall have an issue with mira presumably lurking nearby lmk and i can edit <33

athalia wandered, and mira pursued. her daughter's first exploration from the den frightened her, and at first she had pursued with haste, but soon she grew calm as she realized the girl was alright. it was the heart of a mother, severely protective of her kin. 

curious, she moved with some yards of distance at all time. she wanted to see how athalia would fare. and were there danger, mira would be there at a moment's need.

when a young dark wolf appeared, and called out to her daughter, mira's fur had prickled tensely. from the foliage she had watched, but her child had a child's empty reaction, and soon something catches the stranger's attention before she flees. a bird lands beside athalia, pecking boredly at the ground. 

exploring? comes mother's voice after a moment, just before she emerges. i have eyes everywhere, was her intended implication. but she did not use a tone of anger, only conversational with the child that could not converse quite yet. 

the bird scuttles a few feet away as mira approaches. she sniffs at the ground, double-checking for signs of danger, but for now finds herself content. 

be careful where you wander when i am not with you. i can only protect you when you stay close to me, she reminded her daughter. it was a good thing i am here, because we can not trust strangers who we do not know. she tilted her head at athalia. she wondered if anything was seeping into her head at all, or if it was still too early.

Mother.
She had grown to recognize that voice, the one that always spoke to her. Those eyes of spring-yellow, always so cold and yet enticing all the same.
Unmoving from her place in the grass, her tail twitches into a slow, malcontent thump. Leave me be!
These words have little bearing to a child her age, hardly even four weeks old — a plump little jellybean wrought in shades of dark, only the lightest hints of estranged russet beginning to seep through. But that russet was her birthright; a mark of alienation, a mark of godspeak; something that said perhaps she would not be the woman mother wanted her to be.
Or maybe she would. Her paws lift up as they tuck beneath her chin, soft, round belly exposed in a display of submission. Don't be mad!