Amara was angry. Mother had decided to send them north, despite her daughter's pleading that they wait until the spring. But the herd's matriarch would take no arguments - a newly healed scar on Amara's muzzle could attest to that. There had been nothing she could do besides head north as she was bidden, but she had grumbled and complained about it the whole way. Before long, her companions had grown sick of her bitching and had dispersed among themselves, splitting off like a swarm across Relic Lore. For a while, Amara had been traveling with one of the herd's bulls, Geoff, but he too had finally grown irritated with her. He had stayed behind when the land had begun to grow rocky and the climb grew steeper.
Ploughing through the snow in her rage, Amara cursed everything about this land. The earth was virtually dead beneath her hooves, and she had sustained herself by eating the bark and branches from the shrubs and the lower parts of the trees. Every time she climbed a hill, she hoped that there would be a full forest, filled with berries and other tasty treats. She had been disappointed every time. Until now. Huffing and puffing as she came over the crest, her small black eyes found relief at the bottom. A grove of crabapple trees before the next hill. They were bare, but there was enough vegetation clustered at their base that Amara's spirits soared as she flew down the bottom, her stubby legs kicking wildly in her haste, sending snow and pebbles flying into the air in her wake. Reaching the grove, she wasted no time burying her snout in the snow, eagerly attacking the visible roots of the trees and the dead fruit that had fallen.