What a fine spring morning! The birds sing in their most beautiful of melodies and the scent of fresh shoots blocks out any malodorous smell from the den she has taken refuge in since returning once more to Spirane. It would take much time to clean out the den that had been ravaged over the time since her travels. She had found a dead racoon in there upon returning, wrinkling her nose at the stench and pawed around with some bare bones that had miraculously made their way into it. The scent of Magnus had been faint and she had been alone, deflated, for a few moments before she had set to work. Digging and shuffling and dry-heaving as the stale taste of the mummified creature invaded her mouth upon getting rid of it. Well, what was she supposed to do? Paw it out the door? Probably, but Fjallraven hardly did anything easily.

She unwinds from a restless slumber, finding herself wide awake and desiring something else. To stretch her legs. Once she would have hated the need to travel, remembering days glued as the shadow to the hip of her mother. The painful trek, pushing her past her limits until the roughened pads of her paws bled and her body ached and then to be scolded and mocked for her stupidity. She knew she was a coward and weakling but she had set out a few seasons ago to prove to herself that she could live. That she would no longer rely on the good will of others to care for her.

She had learned to hunt - it had been really easy once starvation had begun to set in and knowing no one was around to help her this time. Reich had saved her, Jericho had saved her, Magnus had saved her... it was time to save herself. It had been hard to kill the rabbit the first time because she had paused long enough to feel the tiny heart hammering, to see the fear and smell it, and she had felt horrible afterward but choked it down anyways.

Now she knew to shut that part of her brain off. She left the slopes of Spirane, skirting the edge of the crater that housed the Mecor valley and headed southward into the plains of Ruieze. The world had come alive once more and she spotted pheasants, or the shadow of them, between the fast-growing stalks. Her belly rumbled and the warm sun gleamed down on her charcoal fur, the gold streaks along her hips seeming bright. She had not gained much weight in her time away, only changed what she had to lean muscle, but she would never be a fighter. Always a runner.

Overlarge soft golden eyes look out the world, her too-large ears swiveling as she crouches down, wiggles her butt (because it is a hard habit to break!) and then rushes at the pheasants. They are so close and she hungers for them. The stalks separate as she runs and the pheasants shoot into the sky with a cry of alarm. Fjall's head rises to watch even as she keeps running... until a rock catches her paw, sending her sprawling and skidding on her side with a yelp of surprise and dismay. Well. She could teach herself to hunt, just not to be graceful about it.