Barrow Fields i was lost in the cities, alone in the hills

What he thought to be a deer was, in fact, a wolf. He did not realize it until he was nearer and she had paused; the true deer was leagues away already and set itself in a mild panic when the scent of two wolves caught their attention. Firefly stopped his irregular stride and regarded the wolf; if he focused with his right eye he could see her clearly, a jagged masked creature with sharp angles and weathered expression. His left was a milky white but that didn't mean he had been wholly blinded by experience — he could make out her shape with it, kind of like staring at a misted mirror after a shower, and when overlayed together it gave the stranger an ethereal quality. Smoothed some of those rough edges.

She looked old. He voice sounded matronly, but the expression on her face held a visceral wildness. Her comment caught in his ears and they twitched - slicking back briefly, although the missing ear on one side didn't appear to move much. Dunno, he responded, and cleared his throat afterwards.

Was somethin' big. Nearly died — didn't, though. He recalled the white-hot pain of defeat, flashes of forest and the smell of blood — Firefly flinched when a fresh wave of these memories vivified in his mind, and looked away from the stranger, his expression grim.