aJIfiejwfiwjefiw i am the most awkward character-picker-upper ever
It had been weeks since death had visited her. Thamur had been a weak and old coyote -- it had not been a shock to Myrika when he had passed. Nonetheless, she could not have predicted the effect his death had on her. Grief struck with surprisingly deftness, burying a poison-tipped dagger in her ribs. That poison had been a slow rot, one as unexpected as Thamur's eventual passing had been expected. Loneliness.
It was with that heaviness bearing on her that she had set out from the camp she'd called her home for the past year. It was close to the place where they were supposed to have ended up eventually, that mythical place that she had not even been certain of at first. It might have been as much legend and falsehood as it was reality, and the coyote hybrid had been very nearly surprised to find it was real. She had been afraid to travel to the coast and see this place for what it was, but loneliness had driven her here at last.
Her horse's movement beneath her was slow and calculated, the rope of twisted sinew extending behind the mare somewhere to the donkey. On his back were most of her possessions -- what little she had, anyway. It wasn't as if she had stockpiled a great many things -- most of it was simple and made by her own hand, or Thamur's. Thamur hadn't been short of skill, and failing as his eyesight had been, as much as his hands had trembled, his work was sturdy and had proved its use time and time again.
Their movement was slow -- the land was sloped and rocky, impassable in some places. She had avoided places deemed too rough for the equines' hooves, and now had crested the uppermost ridge of the mountains, peering down a slope as foreboding as the one she'd just climbed. Far below, storm grey water swirled, the white breakers against the beach just barely visible to her turquoise eyes. She watched this, the horse shifting beneath her and the donkey bleating his objection to the climb and packs saddled upon him.
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