South of the abandoned farm where she awoke was a golden glow. At first she thought it might be the sun, but the light was too weak, too transient. Old warnings about following mysterious lights flashed through her mind, keeping her well away from whatever lay across the bridge.

In the end, curiosity and loneliness won out. Her family were not here. She had already known as much once she awakened; it had taken her this long to accept it. Even now, she believed they must be somewhere—and so she trotted towards the strange light, wondering if perhaps it had lured others with its glow. Perhaps, perhaps, it would give her answers.

At the end of her trek across the stone bridge she found a light yellow flame. Fueled by nothing she could see, yet large enough to make her wary of approaching. Yet she did not feel heat singing off her fur: this fire seemed gentle, in spite of its great size. She crept closer, and marvelled that the cold biting at her pawpads had lessened.

She heard something behind her, and she whirled around in surprise, fur half-bristled. Who goes there?

The bird's wings are more tireless than a gaat'si's. Xván'tay's flown further than she can ever remember flying before- at least enough to cover the length of the Txsit'si twice over. And she hasn't found anything, except more snow and cold.

It's been a miserable fucking week. Few weeks. Month? She never thought she'd miss the plague flats.

And then, banking sharp around the windy bend of a mountain, spots fire.

She nearly knocks herself out of the sky stopping- eagles aren't built to hang in place like gaat'si can. The flame is golden- alive, leaving a ring of damp grass visible even from her great height, the color of Yatixil's magic when they offered it, back before they'd determined she was old enough to strike her own flint and steel. Of course she follows it- sweeping down from the sky like the arc of a comet.

They won't be there. They won't, they won't- she chants it to herself like a mantra while wind whistles past her feathers in a wild howling gale. She's not a child, but she can't help but shut her eyes, for a moment. Can't help but imagine.

She's falling too fast. When she looks again, the ground is rushing up to meet her- and she flares her wings and comes to an inelegant stop, spraying ice and dead grass and wet mud. Better than some of the things she's had on her feathers.

She's not...disappointed to see no Yatixil, because she wasn't expecting them. Not really. But it stings anyway, enough that being yelled at by another wolf draws a fluting shriek of irritation and defiant shift of heavy wings. "Take a fucking guess."

Her heart pounded in her chest for a split-second as she sought the voice she heard.

When she noticed the brown shape in the snow, Corvi stared, taken aback. Instead of a fellow wolf, an eagle had plopped down from the sky. Not only that, but she spoke. Her fur flattened, any aggression abating from her surprise. Instead, she peered down at the indignant bird with curious red eyes. She was wise enough not to get too close; she didn't like the look of that sharp beak, and those sharp talons.

Ah, said Corvi. She flattened her ears apologetically. I thought you might be a raider. Or, someone I know.

You come to see the fire too...ah...орел (eagle)? The common word evaded her.

Xván'tay bristles, already preparing to be indignant; to put the beak and claws to a test. She's not sure why she's so irritated, not really, because it's nothing to that crow from weeks ago, but it feels like everything's reaching a boiling point and she can't ignore what reality is telling her much longer.

But the wolf's expression deflates and her ears flatten, and then Xván'tay just feels kind of bad. "...Sorry."

If she was back in the plaguelands, she'd be striking first and asking questions later, too. And probably still would, if she was the one with a wolf creeping up behind her- she's seen what those teeth can do to flesh.

She's yet to figure out why any of these people speak the common tongue, much less speak at all, but the rumbling last word isn't one she's ever heard, and lots of traders come along the Txsit'si. Not that it means much.

"Yeah," she says. "I guess...I was hoping for someone I knew. I mean, I knew they wouldn't be here, but... I'm not supposed to be here either."

A shake of the head. She's not going to feel sorry for herself in front of a stranger. "Can you," she frowns as much as the bird can, "what language is that?"