The night before, on the run from a former incensed lover, wailing children left behind in their poor excuse for a den, Wormwood had fallen asleep in the roots of an old tree, in the dusty old thing with a gathering of feathers. Her paws had struck out against the green of the grass and behind her, she left her litter and husband for good! Oh, she'd seen what happened to mothers. Saw it happen to her own; overworked, stretched thin, and given no attentions beyond a quick, dry roll in the grass and a tired peck on the jaw which was meant to be a suitable replacement for real, kind and hearty loving. Maybe a life suitable for other women, less impatient and coy than she. Wormwood does not envy them.
With a loud yawn, she stretches her lean legs out in the den, only to find there is no den at all. Blinking, she rolls onto her back, lashes fluttering as the dimmed light of day spills in between gaps in the trees, a blanket of leaves beneath her. The fog shocks her and she twists to her feet, eyes wide as she takes in her surroundings.
"Well, isn't this just queer," she muses, brow stitched together as she tries to put together the pieces. By the witches, it seems she just woke up in some place other than where she had laid her pretty head the night before! Drawing forward, she lifts her nose to the air, breathing deep and catching the scents in her nostrils.