Eirwen watches the wind sweep Gjalla’s coat and it rushes through her, the cold biting the flesh of her scars. There is no acknowledgment other than the wince of her eye.
“We were many wolves strong. Sixty, seventy?” How did they manage to all stay healthy? A brief memory of hunting lands, devoid of moving life, pops back into her head. “I was a soldier. I remember his orders, to chase any loners off our land. Or bring them back.”
Now she stands at the edge on a winter plain, a loner by her own decree. It would only be rightful for another to chase her away.
![[Image: dkuvap9-a9472ba5-e026-4e5c-b139-9ed9cc398051.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/3JTSXtDC/dkuvap9-a9472ba5-e026-4e5c-b139-9ed9cc398051.png)
speaks common
