The deeper the grief, the closer is spirit.

Orion

POSTED: Mon Dec 02, 2019 11:59 pm

The Hushhowl runt had been little more than a wraith at a grave site since her return to the mainland, having failed to announce her return yet making most of the pack aware of her presence with the mournful howling that occasionally swept the chilly kingdom. Barely affording herself time to eat and sleep, the girl grieved beside her parents' final resting place day in and day out for nearly a week since her return. But of course the spirit of the Hushhowl slowly began to return, and be it instinct or just an angry stomach, something within Day began to prod her into action. Though her grief was anything but abated, she finally managed to plod further and further away from the grave each day, until one day, it was out of sight.

She was definitely a sight. With her soil-stained limbs and messy, twig-infested braid she probably didn't look much better than the old bodies lying in the grave themselves. Her eyes were puffy from crying and sleeping too little, and if her pelt wasn't so notoriously fluffy, her ribs would probably poke out from beneath her breast from lack of nutrition. Her prime sustenance over the last few days had been whatever scraps she could find in the area, and whatever few offerings any pitying pack mate had left for her. Now that the grave was out-of-sight, out-of-mind, she felt the weakness of her limbs and the way her head wanted to spin when she moved too fast, and she cursed herself for being so stupid as to letting her sorrow overtake her prime directive; survival.

Still in a bit of a daze, the short Optime woman padded with short strides away from the Silent Meadow, through the dense forestation of the Sugar Woods, and finally ended when she came upon a lake. “Weeping Lake,” she muttered to herself, noting the coincidence between her recent state and the lake's moniker. It was almost enough to draw another tear from her almond eye, though it would be a miracle if she hadn't dried up completely by now.

Speaking of... Day knelt down upon the bank of the placid lake and dipped her hands into the icy water. The cold might have startled her if not for the overwhelming sense of numbness she had since learning of her father's death. As the rings of water rippled away from her hands they carried with it little ribbons of brown, and after blinking in confusion, Day realized it was the soil sloughing off of her dirty fingers. Grave dirt. She forgot to lift the soothing drink to her maw and lap at it. Instead, she stared dazedly into the water as though contemplating whether or not to leap into its frigid embrace.

400+
Around noonish, give or take. At Weeping Lake.
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