A trail of paw prints led from the crashing waves by the sea, through sandy dunes, to the fringes of a woody cliff. A lone, black traveller turns around casting piercing black eyes over her hidden home. Somehow she knew she wasn't ever going to return the sands of the Eastern Lands. She hadn't told anyone of that feeling inside of her, but there it was. She would not be going back. She would not ever see those sands and wavelets in which she had played when she was little. The black hare turned away without any emotion on her face, although, inside, emotions were bubbling like boiling water . . .
In a swirl of green and black, the hare vanished into the cliffs, never to return.
Patchrunner nestled back into a tussock on the top of a …
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