from one forest to the next, thrúd wandered.

thrúd moves through the snow with little intent behind it—wandering for the sake of wandering, fur heavy with frost, lungs stinging with each cold breath she draws in. she does not mind the solitude—never has. a trait that runs in the family; they prided themselves on self-sufficient people—so says mother, at least.

distantly, a fresh scent hits her nose, mingling with the ice that dries a cold nose. her head lifts, curious, but nothing—yet, she feels it—something on the edge of the air, watching, waiting.

a second stir of wind, a ripple in the snow. a blur of white and gray, moving. stranger.