I found a shooting star in the pocket of my jeans

Grief settled like a cold stone in her gut, and she left the Col for the first time in a while. Burying her mother had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. The warming dirt had been nearly impossible to dig through in the Col, and it had taken all of the siblings' combined effort to give Lirika the burial she deserved. Now, they were beginning to return to a semblance of normalcy. This left the young shaman with a dilemma. There was no one to take care of, and she was left without a purpose. Somehow, she had made the decision to seek out a pack to join. There, she could find some form of routine and purpose, and build a life. If she could find anything like the Ludicael that her mother had told her about, there might be hope for her.

The first borders she came upon were blissfully close to home. Marvel would never leave the north for long, it was where she belonged. Adjusting her satchel against her flank, the champagne femme paced at the borders for a few minutes. Deliberating. Should she really do this? What if this was a crazy, irrational decision brought on by grief? Her breathing hitched, and she struggled to fight it down. There was no turning back now, she'd gotten this far.

The alabaster wolf tipped back her narrow cranium, letting loose a sonorous howl to summon the leader of this pack. It was time to make something of herself.

"speech"