Phoenix Maplewood I have never known hunger like these insects that feed on me

there is something that twists and burns in her at the words; the woods should stand empty, always, a testiment to what was and nothing more. "by who?" the words are careful, and she regards the woman with an intensity that burns through the fog of her mourning for this place. she tests the air again; she detects nothing. she knows that this place is merely a territory, that she herself if a hypocrite for thinking of it as more than such, but she can not help it. she is unwanted here in her maplewood, the place and the ideal she fought to protect up until she effectively abandoned it. she hides this well, and intensity fades to a stillness that seeks to match the woman's own fridgid demeanor. but the woman says nothing, and in a moment melts back into the shadows from which she came. left with a certain feel of unease and more questions than answers, the huntress departs.