Kiteingale has discovered Salmon River, a river that hosts a salmon run up until mid-January, even past the light snowfall. Long ago in this area obscured by the thick trees of Sacred Grove that seem to obscure and hide away this place a glacier had run through this place, creating a yawning trough well past the rivers mouth at the foremost portion of the mountains base. Grand stone—of size and amount—spilled into this very area, and this caused the waters to remain and course the warmer water to the surface, so that the waters would remain usable to the salmon who would make their run through this riverbed. The area is overpopulated with eagles, some who migrate for this and others whom had lived there since they have hatched; it is not rare to witness a fight among them. Bears, too, keep to this area though are more than content to mind their own. The area is difficult to find only because many overlook it, enchanted by the depths of the Grove. But these are good fishing grounds, safe so long as you mind the apparent residents of the place. The river is by no means a massive one, and it curls and stretches sidelong before turning into a Creek itself down the line. RN Image Reference
With the weather not horrible, the songbird sought to take a quick, two-maybe three-day trip. She had informed her leaders of her intent: to scout around, briefly. Even if this was some pipe dream it would be something she had to figure out; Kisla humored her, but as for the others opinion... well, she hadn't expressly told him much of anything, had she? The songbird would keep her situation for the most part to herself; she did not want to be looked at oddly, or differently, or for others to feel like that if ever she remembered they would mean any less to her. Nightingale had already figured out that the wolves in her life that she met now were no less important to her than the ones in her past at the Caldera. While she didn't know how much those wolves meant to her, she had to presume that her leaving was inevitable if she had done so intentionally. She felt horrible, in the leaving of the Caldera. Horrible but not wrong; her intuition led her along.
And today, it led her in the wrong direction. Her situation would never allow for her to remember everything at once, or even anything at all if she tried to summon it. As her mind attempted to repair itself—some pieces were linked limply, currently, like the memory of fishing with her mother while others reached for one another desperately, perhaps to no avail—she knew she could no more force herself to remember things now than she could, well, ...hate others without reason! Impossible. Hell, hating in general was not something the songbird partook in; she didn't know what it felt like, but she had surely heard the word used.
In cutting through the mountains, avoiding the particularly treacherous areas, she saved herself a great amount of time. She used those very mountains as a vantage point but could not see anything that struck her as familiar from such heights. While she knew she couldn't expect her problems to end in a fortnight she certainly wished it could be so. Even less, as she thought of it. The songbird moved for miles and miles and miles without rest up until she reached the Lake, where she did sleep for a while; and then she continued onward, now picking her way down. A forest had caught her eye, beautiful even from here. If it was familiar she could not tell, but she wanted to know if the shadow of a memory lingered there, caught beneath the root of a tree.
But in going downward, a roar caught her attention. Louder than most, this season, but it certainly sounded like a river. Even from here she could hear the battlecry of eagles, and the songbird moved from a thinly forested area out of the Forest. There was an average sized clearing with impressive views of the mountain that appeared faraway from here, but there was subtle inclines that betrayed its true proximity beyond the river. She could not see the mouth of the waterway but she could see salmon, more than she had ever expected to see this time of year, jumping through the water.
This place was teeming with wildlife; bears stood and surveyed and surged like clockwork as they fished. Two eagles scrapped over a particularly large salmon midair, while others were content to survey. The songbird herself stood there among it all, staring in awe. Were she a lone wolf still she would have stayed here; even still, salmon were a better quarry for her to hunt than any ungulate given there was no risk of it lashing out at your head to break your jaw or crush your head. And while she stiffened at the sight of the bear—bears, actually, there were many of them—they were bent to their tasks and did not so much as sniff upon her arrival. The songbird herself had no idea what to do... but before long, she was headed toward the water to test the current.