Kalenorava had little birds of her own. They were covered in fur and walked on four paws; they had sharp teeth and sharper wit. When asked whether or not they would join her in this pursuit, they replied with unanimous nods of their heads. Her leader — the Bloodletter, they called him — had overseen the release of a dwarf bittern who knew far too much. She could fly and talk, a lethal combination where secrecy was concerned.
A cheetah had vouched for her, offered to take the blame if things went awry, but that wasn't good enough for Kalenorava. What was she to do, sit and wait until everything came crashing down? The best problem solvers never got the recognition they deserved because they cut down would-be hazards before they lived up to their potential, not after.
She'd narrowed her search down to several areas, one being this eyesore. Marshy, stagnant water everywhere. It smelled of s**t, death, and insects. Few and far between, there were dry patches of land. When she could, she kept her paws clean, calling to the flocks, the crocodiles, anyone who would listen. All things considered she'd been as inconspicuous as the situation allowed. Not near enough to keep rumors from spreading.
By time Heinrich met her, be he passing through or settled in, it was likely he'd heard more than one account of the green leopardess prowling around. Some who had yet to see her were convinced she was a spirit, damned to search for her lost cub forever.
She lounged on the second lowest branch of a dying tree that morning, half-asleep, half-awake. The leaves were gathered in a crumbled heap around the trunk. One needed only to look up to see her there.
Quaji