The songbird had figured out earlier that day her desires for the moment did not rest in being a scout. The woman knew she was good at that. Perhaps she would take it up again but in hearing that another carried such a role made it not necessarily less attractive to her, but that she, somehow, might be less necessary to the others. That ought to be a good thing given her unknown timeline... but the songbird was ambitious. She always—and always would—wanted more. It would not be said that she was a useless addition for however long she ran with them. She would be the most useful that she could be.



In returning home, the songbird paused before a lovely Spring. There was a distinct familiarity about this location. A distinct, prickling feeling that she ought to do something. So she sniffed the air; she imagined this train of thought was brought on by a gametrail she might have passed over that had come 'round this way again. Nightingale decided she would investigate more in a moment; she was parched from her jog and the dry air. But she did not hunger, or ache, or anything else. Her journey was met with no difficulty except that the fog lingered which made her pace slower than she wished for it to be. The Hearthwood wolf approached the water with quiet, ginger steps and began to drink, tail flicking idly behind her.