intended for Rourke | forward dated to the 30th
the trees stood like old gods mother spoke about. tall sentinels, tipped with frost. thrúd moved between them with a brisk step, cracking frostbitten undergrowth beneath her paws. her breath came in clouds, curling silver in the cold, but her stride was unbothered. wind worried the tangled fur along her shoulders, but she barely blinked.
snow clung to her legs, dustings and frozen clumps. they did not weigh her down—not really. there was no destination—just motion, just the pull of wilds that wouldn't let her stay still. birds startled at her passage, wings beating overhead, and her ears twitched at the sound. crows. pretty.