Her ancestors always went out into the winter forest to lay trap lines for the fur trade.
Always a little closer to the cavemen than the civilized folk, she has no more objection to skins and pelts than she does to her near raw and bloody steak feasts, and wraps herself in her target’s totem animal skins as a way to work her thaumaturgic rites to bring him closer… for she also lays trap lines in a sense, capturing far bigger trophies than brought her ancestors their meager sustenance in the lean months.
Black fur on the top and back with a silver white underbelly lining. Fire as the candles dance wildly, dagger-sized flames off the wicks as she dances in the silent witching hours and nine miles to the north the nose of a were-lagomorph twitches to her beat, unable to help himself.
It is almost time to go check the snares and bring in the harvest.
