Wheeling Gull Isle There are darknesses in life

His first thought when he saw her was of Rosalyn. Her wounds were fresh though. A missing ear, some ruination to an otherwise pleasant enough sculpt of flesh - but eerily similar. Firefly hadn't wanted to reflect on the life he'd run away from or the time after, as it made him feel as if he were drowning all over again. The guilt wasn't the reason for his suffering - but his failure, his inability to win against the warrior woman on the cliff, or the women of Rusalka before that. Within him was a festering wound that no amount of poultice, rest, or food could concievably correct.

He watched her from a far-off vantage point where he rested, day in and day out, until he had enough strength to try and stand on half-healed limbs. The scars to his hocks were well looked after with Strand's rudimentary abilities; what Firefly could remember from Willow and Nettle he put to good use - he would be up and about soon enough. Days turned to night, night was driven back by sunlight or dreary cloud. Firefly waited and his body recovered.

Then, in the night, a perilous scream thrust itself in to the blackness and he jarred awake, lurching to his paws and directing himself without thought towards the sound. Firefly tumbled as he fought against the loose dry sand along the upper edge of the beach, kicking up a cloud of dust as he moved with a sleepy stupor; his heart thundered in his breast, and he sought out the sleeping girl without knowing what he was hunting for.

When he found her sleeping figure he was surprised by it, but by that point he was at least cognizant enough not to tumble in to her or trip on his own feet. He slowed to a crawl - then a stop - and looked around in grim silence for dangers, and did not realize he'd ripped open his hocks all over again in the tumult.