Firefly Glen Briar

There had been a disaster here, not so long ago. There were signs.
It looked as if the mountain had come down upon itself. A cataclysm the likes of which he had never seen. Balor was awed by the sight of the many broken trees, shattered across the glen in the manner of a discarded skeleton.
Balor had picked his way north on a whim. The trees did not stand tall as he expected, at least not all of them, and they were covered in moss or some, buried by debris that had since settled. Ferns of various sizes dominated the area.
He dipped his head as if to pay respects to the space. In reality, he searched for signs of life. Any indication that there was something worth finding here, or he would move on.

What a waste. Like a farmer surveying the season's harvest smothered by dust, he slinks up with a sour and disgruntled expression. Wasteland, he corrects himself, nose wrinkling at his slip-up. 

What's someone like you doing in a place like this? He asks now with a slanted grin, aware that such an appraisal (unasked for, intrusive, boldness for the sake of boldness) was likely to inspire irritation. Perhaps even hoping that it would. Whatever the case, his smile didn't exactly scream innocent.

He lets out a slow whistle at the sight of the trees lying prone and in pieces, destroyed by a violence which would normally stir uneasiness - something like a close cousin to vertigo - in his gut. It made no more sense to him than the mountainous ridges of a boot's imprint would to a scuttling ant.