The morn is a quiet one; the only sounds that differentiate from the hushed whisper of the wind was the indistinct murmur of airborne ashes, and the near inaudible rustle of the golden grass and verdant tree-leaves. A solitary mockingbird flits to and fro, lighting with fickle attention unto the gnarled branches twisting anciently skywards within the copse of trees and singing a false bluejay's cry with dirty feathers erect. This singsong equivocator is viewed by twin coffee-brown orbs, subdued and malleable in their demure way, even as a thrill of righteous anger shuddered through the sepia irises of the lass. Quite a vain creature for its deceitful tune. Camelia Tourmaline thinks, with a type of good-natured annoyance, to herself upon sighting the ruffled, sickeningly inky bird. Mayhaps it finds pride in how pleasant it can make its lie. Blinking forgivingly at the winged wretch, Camelia focuses her attention forwards, warming her slender, numb legs as she pressed onwards. She could not recall how long she had lounged a mile or so from the ashen territory that she neared now with every step, nor could she recollect how much time had passed since her last meal. To accentuate the longevity of that time, a muted rumble vibrated through her stomach, drawing from the depths of her essence a sheepish smile. How uncouth! Surely she could not traipse up to the respective borderline with her bowels raising an unappealing racket due to her own incompetence; that would surely be an unfavorable factor towards her and, furthermore, it would be incredibly rude if one's stomach were to interrupt your words because they could not catch their own meals!
Incited into action by determination and self-preservation of dignity, Camelia lifts her delicate head, inhaling the surrounding scents. Oddly enough, the anticipated scent of a rabbit, vole, or squirrel did not waft to her nostrils, replaced instead by the stark stench of blood and doe. Roused all the more athletically by the bountiful prospect awaiting her, and foolishly ignorant to the prowess of an injured and cornered deer, the petal pale maiden lowers herself to the forest floor. She advances at near silence, albeit with a number of fumbles made by inexperienced paws, until the leggy form of her quarry fills the entirety of her already tunneling vision. Which way should I attack? The side, to wring her fragile legs and wrest from her the ability of motor motion? Or, should I leap with slavering, murderous intent towards the pulsating jugular, to perpetually lay the doe to deathly slumber with instantaneous death? After this prolonged moment of contemplation, Camelia tears forwards, pouncing with all the grace a ravenous slip of a mongrel could muster; her fangs stretch hungrily towards the throat, but the deer has other plans in mind. It darts in a random diagonal direction, leaving Camelia to instead land square betwixt its shoulder-blades, grasping its scrawny nape as tightly as she could as if she thought she could ride it.
While the doe is young, it has many years of experience whilst the she-wolf hanging onto her scruff has next to none. Despite this, the doe makes a fatal error; with endeavors to rip the malevolent beast from her back with breakneck speeds, the deer sprints through the grove, stirring up ashes beneath her graceful hooves. This ash will be her undoing. As she speeds, she is focused doggedly on dislodging the pallid vixen, and so slips on the heavy cinders. With an elongated groan of vanquishment, the herbivore tumbles, bringing along with her an incredulous Camelia. Unfortunately, despite her victory against the fleet footed doe, her triumph will not last long.
There is a gruesome crunch, and a strangled whine of agony. In her literal downfall, the doe had trapped Camelia's left front leg beneath her hefty frame, snapping the delicate bone with darkly amusing ease. Caustic pain coils throughout the entirety of the pastel girl's silhouette, rendering her speechless beyond unintelligible and shrill sobs, though she still possesses the mind to, slowly, remove the useless extremity from the dying deer's mass. Soon, the leg is free, but as Camelia Tourmaline gazes upon its limpness, she cannot help but snivel pitifully. The searing pain had shifted to frigid nothingness, and for a delirious moment, the damsel yearns for the agony again; after all, its feeling reassured her, whilst the numbness brought to her mind a terror that enveloped her subconscious like a viscous vapor.

She awakes with churning limbs and a body shaking with the throes of a frightening, and all too realistic dream. The pale maiden sits up jerkily, staring in disbelief down at her own fore legs, meticulously running her narrow maw down each limb to reassure herself that each one was intact. And, with the revelation that every one of her bones remain unharmed, comes euphoric happiness. From her place upon ash-streaked haunches she bounds, bolting forwards with bushy tail soaring joyfully. Ah, the wonders of well-kept limbs! Says she within a now clear mind, a considerable smile stretching across the expanse of her pallid, comely face and lighting her youthful brown eyes with an inexplicable light; it was the quiet flame, quiet yet vigorous, of adolescence, an inferno that should dwell within every wolf be they babe or adult. With this fire, Camelia Tourmaline soon reaches the border, shaking from her pastel chagrin-colored pelt the ashes that had accumulated on her flanks and rump, forcing her wagging plume betwixt her haunches. There, smiling widely with her pink tongue lolling in breathlessness and with fawn-colored windows brimming with naïvety and meek virtue, she awaits what she believed to be her destiny.