Firefly Glen born of cages

Kitsch was never the most vigilant of wolves — she never had to be. Others upheld that job for her: her guards looked out for her wellbeing, her advisors maintained her political career, her court nurtured her social standing. They told her what to do, she made the arbitration, someone else swung the sword, they all reaped the benefits. Was she a puppet for? Yeah, maybe. But she was a happy puppet so it was all alright in her books. 

It all had changed after the attack [mostly, her opinion of herself had shattered] but with every passing day she could feel her soul creep, little by little, back into her body. While she was by no means a happy or contented girl, but life with West and Libeccio was quite alright. She was no longer a worthless thing, waiting to die. She was now a worthless thing who craved her own dependency. 

In her flight of freedom, she crested a small slope and felt her momentum pull her downwards — her legs responded and she sprang faster and faster, not sure if she had ever moved so fast before; not sure any wolf had done so before! Her vision blurred and she became one with her body and its movements, recognizing it for the things it could do and not the things that had happened to it.

But, as she neared the bottom of the slope, a dark blur caught her eyes and she was immediately jarred back to her reality. It was him — her assailant, a dark blur in the distance. She was right; the man had been following her. It wasn't her frayed mind playing tricks on her. Apprehension ran through her and her legs ceased to work. Kitsch’s sprint was slowed to a walk and then she halted, ears splayed back, hackles raised, sneering at the man in the distance.  This time, with her mind clear of poppy, the kitten would not be a victim.