Emerging from the cave into the bright morning sunlight, the lynx-pointed molly blinked to shield her pale eyes from the painful glare. As her oculars adjusted to the mid-morning sun, Frost gazed around her in horror. Through avalanche and tearing winds, the snowscape was shaped beyond her recognition.
The scruffy-furred prey-hunter shrank back against the wall of the cave, fighting the urge to retreat back to the den. However, she'd barely stirred beyond her next for over a moon following the death of her family - she was the youngest of six kits, having been born in her parents' second litter of three. The fearful point-furred molly had been woken early that morning by a kit too young to know better, and somehow found it in herself to stir from her grief-stricken stupor to greet the world. Rejoining Tribe life would be a struggle, but with help and a little more poking from the Tribe of Endless Hunting, she could perhaps regain enough confidence to become a contributing member of the Tribe again.
// Since I always join as a loner, here's something different! It's ya bro Ranger btw. Frost at First Light is genderfluid and will use different pronouns at different times but today and thus in this post, she/her :) Basically, she's been in a sort of guilty and grieving catatonia for about six weeks so treat her like a lil baby bird with more hugging