Bearclaw Valley my isle of golden dreams

duskfall vanquished the last embers of the sun, and the world sat in a roiling pool of navy and burnished orange. the temperature, along with the light, fled in a matter of minutes -- indra felt the wind bite her heels and she looked after tadec as he slipped like a thief into the dark confines of the coniferous forest.

around her the scent of loam and wilderness -- bough and fir -- she sucked in a deep breath and exhaled shakily, as if unshouldering for the first time the worries that weighted her.

a cry, sharper than any call she could summon, suddenly rent the forest and in a matter of moments the copse was alive with the chatter of night-stalkers and moon-dancers -- indra turned to tadec then, his fine features illuminated by the gentle waxing of the cold-pearl moon. indra sing? the question seemed almost preposterous, were it not for the chorus of cries that crescendoed behind them. with a grin and a shrug she threw back her head in a tumultuous howl, joining the thousands that heralded the oncoming night.