Firefly Glen dark wings, dark words

Something darker — more solid — than the low afternoon shade moved through the crowd of spring boughs in the glen. Goodnight tried to follow it with his eyes, but lost sight of the figure almost as quickly as he had found it.

He waited patiently to find it once more, and only when the shadow idled was he able to make out the features of another wolf in the distance. Not prey, disappointingly.

The wolf sighed as he rose from his prepared crouch and shook loose what earthy litter still clung to him from the ground. It would do him no use to keep lying in wait along this stretch of a deer-path, as he would not find a meal with another predator traipsing mildly about. She seemed lost in thought, which was entirely unhelpful to his present cause, but the hunter was nothing if not flexible, and he quickly rearranged his objectives so that he might make a slow approach towards the packwolf with the intent of making her acquaintance.

The bachelor chuffed, and wagged his tail — low and unthreatening — wondering if her mood would allow him closer.