A sister recalls
The sun rises slowly, its watery and cold with the touch of winter. You look across the land and its brushed with a low lying mist that comes from the river. You can hear the morning dew dripping from the trees as the light frost begins to melt.
You turn slowly the bosk fur wrapped tightly round you, kneeling you add logs to the fire whilst your sisters sleep. You check the string on your bow is dry and smooth the feathers of your arrows as you take a little smoked bosk meat. You brush the hair back from your eyes and discard the fur. Even though its winter and the cold bites in, you are dressed in little more than a loincloth and short top. You convince yourself you are not cold, after all you are panther and above such things. Even though your fingers feel numb and frozen and your feet like lumps of wood. You lope off towards the gate and out across the land towards the outlaws camp. You head deeper, ever deeper into the territory of your enemies and along the way, you leave the mark of your tribe so they know, they all know, that you claim this land for your tribe.
Yet you are wary, for you are alone and always in your mind, you wonder is this the day when they will outwit you and take you down. As you run the blood circulates warming your feet and fingers and you dare not hesitate or stop. Nowhere is safe and nowhere will ever be safe again, for you are outcast, you are panther, you are Forest Moon.