Arrow Lake you should be admired by painters—copied by sculptors—exalted by poets!

The sylph had secluded herself from the majority of the pack since her return. She had settled to a small den, overlooked by various members of Diaspora as she lingered in and out of consciousness—her bodies demands of sleep leaving no room for argument as she gave in to her dreams, allowing her flesh and soul to mend. The latter certainly seemed to be taking its time, though.

The spring day found her just outside of the den she had shadowed within, her slender form stretched languorously across the deepening emerald of the grass, as if her mind enraptured only thoughts of a whimsical nature then the darker moments that bore heavily upon her spirit.

An ear flickered idly, the silence of the moment taken in with the slight cant of her exotic muzzle. Green apple eyes shifted to study the flutter of a yellow butterfly—it’s wings an impressive expanse of beauty and hidden power. It pivoted closer, as if barely able to control itself among the breeze, and as it neared her muzzle, the she-wolf felt the quiver of her lip as she snapped at the creature, appropriately missing, but nonetheless revealing the bitter temper that stormed within her chest.