Torla woke to a snowy world. Flakes drifted from above, dancing to earth with delicate, swirling steps like millions of tiny fairies. Sacred Grove was quiet and peaceful, though she had chosen to sleep away from the constant activity of the pack den. The woman preferred her own space, and she had been lucky enough to find it in an abandoned badger den that was tucked amid the roots beneath a tall sycamore. She peered through the entrance at the snowfall, watching several of the tiny crystals land in the dirt as she blinked sleep away.



      After many moments of drifting in and out of consciousness, Torla finally opened her eyes and did not shut them again. She crawled out of her sleeping quarters and stepped into snow that stung her warm paw pads with frigid cold. Over the past week, she had done nothing but sleep and eat, recovering from the brief stint of time she had spent alone that had left her weak and ragged. Already, her fur had regained its sheen and her eyes were bright liquid amber again. The pale wolfess set off through the silent grove, her head held low as her snout hovered above the frosty earth, seeking the scent of prey.

dunno how Ozera knows about jesus, but any wolf equivalent would sound corny. :P

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Determination forced her to steel herself and bare her teeth for the next step she was to take. After having been in Swift River for a little bit now, she had decided she would take her recuperation into her own hands. Without exercise, she would just be a useless fleabag taking up space, a black hole for her new pack mates to throw their food into. Under no circumstances would Ozera let them do that. So now, here she was, not particularly far from the main den, since she really was rather limited. Dauntless, however, she hobbled about in the snow, occasionally testing her left leg, occasionally sitting back down to rest. Even in this sorry state of agony, Ozera was enjoying herself. The sibilant morning pinpricked with falling white flecks amused and exhilarated her.


But moments after taking not even ten steps, the dizziness and pain suffocated her, forcing her to lean back onto the trunk of a helpful, sturdy giant. The sycamore's branches rattled softly in the tempestuous breeze, the staccato taps piercing the morning air like morse code. More trees responded. Just to her left, out of the ground and through the whorled roots, though, a small white paw darted out, tentatively kissing the snow. It was then joined by a body, wiggling out of a tunnel, manifesting before her eyes. "Oh, Jesus!" she exclaimed, taken back a bit. But she could not jump or draw back, seeing as such movement would have tortured her. "Good morning, Ms. Badger!"
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