Firefly Glen you're familiar like my mirror years ago

@Val

A light rain had begun to fall in the early evening, and through the night it picked up to quite the storm; there was hardly any wind though, and the air reeked of salt, likely because of the heat sucking the sea dry through the previous day. It wasn't too cold either; just salty, warm, and dripping mercilessly. Njal did not find the cold so bearable now. By the morning he was wide awake and still damp, but the rain had ebbed to something minimal, and even the birds had begun to sing again. There weren't many of them.

He was up and roaming despite the ache in his hip. At this point Njal couldn't tell if it was from his lack of sleep, his position, or an actual problem with the joint — it just never ended, this pain. It was a constant reminder of the caldera pack, of one of the many disasters he had faced and survived. With a grumble he roamed out from the damp boughs of the forest, idling his way eastward for no real purpose aside from warming himself up. He was a zombie. Exhausted, cold, beaten down by the famine and the toils of age. He knew, somewhere inside of him, that this would all be gone one day. He would be gone. And that brought focus to his mind.

He thought of what would be left behind once he was gone, and as he crossed through a dense grove of strange trees, finding himself in a foreign glen, his mind recalled the sight of a young boy struggling to catch a rabbit.