As the days had passed her sprained paw had begun to heal and her stung pride had also begun to lose it's edge. She would learn how to hunt in time. She had managed to catch a mouse the other day but the moment she had lifted her tiny paw to grab it the thing had bolted, much to her surprise and chagrin. It had aggravated her to no end that no matter how clsoe she actually came she always lost her prey somehow. It didn't help that she had a kind heart either or that if she stopped for even half a millisecond then she would freeze long enough for her food to get away and her frustration to return in full force. How did the other wolves do it? Now as she spent more time in Asteraia and the days of her past with her mother faded into a gray background she become more herself. She began to blame the reason she was so pathetic on the fact that she hadn't learned when she was supposed to. Now she was an adult and couldn't even catch her own meal despite how kind Jericho was when he had taught her.

With each passing day Fjallraven ventures further and further afield from her pack. In her mind it is easy to escape danger with her small size - she can slip between two rocks or jump atop one! Despite what Magnus had said she was certain another animal would leave her alone if she wasn't easily within reach. The mongoose had! That was forgetting the fact that Magnus had chased it off but she still wasn't sure about the male. He hadn't been... too mean, she guessed, just moody. Everlyse was moody too. Then again Fjallraven wasn't at ease with the alabaster female either. After all she had tore up Jericho's poor face, growled at Fjallraven, and just seemed generally conflicted. So she tended to stay away from her when at all possible.

It would be harder with winter growing colder and harsher to catch anything. Still it wouldn't stop her! She wanders down the riverside with her overlarge ears pricked and golden eyes scanning fervently the banks, searching and hoping. Seasons ago she had laid at the edge of the river awaiting death only to find her savior, Reich, who had fed her and cared for her. Now she would get her meal here in this starting place! This place of new beginnings! Yet Fjallraven is still too scrawny, a byproduct of her nature to eat thriftily and the combined walking she has been doing seeking to train herself.

The barest hint of bone can be seen at her ribcage and the way her hips poke out, the way the skin pulls tight across her skull. She is a tiny thing, skin and bones, and short with small paws and too-big ears and golden eyes rimmed by a soft gray that contrasts with the charcoal gray of the rest of her body. Golden tints begin in her ribs and flare out; honestly, if she was fit, she might be a lovely sight. Her voice is certainly angelic and yet she is innocent and naive and stupid. Pathetic, her mother had called her, but Fjallraven tended to think more highly of herself as of late.

So she crouches on the riverbank, spying a beaver cleaning itself, and wiggles her butt like a cat and waits to pounce...