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The sun was bright, the skies were clear, the wind was warm, and the air smelled fragrantly of fresh fruit and flowers — and Bragi was having none of it.

It reminded her of the fairs and parades back home, in a way, just on a smaller, more furry scale. She felt like she used to enjoy those? — she couldn't... remember — but the juxtaposition of the two in her mind made but it hard to breathe. There was a raccoon making flower crowns, for fuck's sake, and once she'd discovered the berries, it was over. They looked rotten and utterly unappetizing, but she'd seen the others eating them and the scent tickled uncomfortably at something familiar in the back of her mind. One tentative whiff confirmed it.

It smelled like wine.

The wolves could make wine.

After that she had found the quietest corner she could with ringing ears and unsteady legs and her heartbeat in her throat, away from all the hustle and bustle, and promptly tucked herself beneath the low-hanging fronds of a bush to die (read: decompress).

The dirt was cool against her stomach, what little sun could penetrate the branches was warm against her back, and the breeze brought with it fresh air that smelled of neither wine nor the salty sea. She breathed in and deeply out through her nose. She closed her eyes and tucked her ears flat against her head and tried to focus on the steady rhythm of her heart beating in the pads of her paws.

She wanted to go home.

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