Each day she spent in White Fir Notch seemed to get easier, and the tension and worry the flower once felt about not being accepted was beginning to fade. She'd met some of her packmates, made a cache for her personal treasures and herbs, learned about and moved into the communal den at night -- this, she suspected, was the needle to pop her balloon of anxieties -- to strengthen bonds with the pack. The understanding and kindness with which she had been treated with and, when needed, corrected, allowed Witch to believe she made a good decision here. If she couldn't be with those who had raised her, at least she was with other wolves that she liked to think cared for her.
The late Winter dawn was quiet and serene as Witch stretched to her paws and headed out, nose tilted up to the sky to take in every scent she could around the frost and the wet. She trudged through the snow with only a little struggle, shivering lightly against the freezing cold against her legs and the thought of the colder months ahead. The coast had been warmer than this, even in the bitter times of cold, and never had she seen so much snow.
Her dainty paws slashed through the snow for a while, and eventually even Witchhazel knew she'd crossed the borders and left them behind her recently -- this didn't stop her from gliding forward to look for something for the pack, herb or prey. She couldn't come back empty pawed, not if she wanted to feel she was at least starting to earn her keep.
Eventually, she was a few miles out, and still looking intently for something of interest. Her blue and green eyes swept the landscape before her, relishing and loathing the white powder at the same time, cursing silently to the wind for the dampening of scents.