Firefly Glen Show me the miles and your arms and the pink scar

Giving the quantity challenge a go! Word Count: 1004

The moon hung overhead, dowsing the world beneath it in a ghostly glow. At times the clouds would slip over it, hiding it from those that walked the earth. Yama stared long and hard up at the sky that evening, watching as the night’s light disappeared and reappeared before her very eyes; atop the mountain, she could see everything—the lands below were hers to observe. Briefly, as a gust of wind blew past her, she shut her eyes; she imagined what it felt like to walk through the sky as the moon did every night, that the wind sweeping through her fur were the gentle kisses of the clouds. But, when she opened her eyes, those images seemed to fade away and she was back on the mountain, staring down on the world—perhaps she might never capture the moon but, there atop those reaching peaks, she felt strong enough to overpower that which drifted overhead.

Strong enough to take on the moon, and yet fearful enough to run—

Carefully and knowingly, the Ostrega descended the mountain with ease. Her movements were quick yet precise, each paw placed with great thought, so as not to go tumbling down; this realm was where she was most comfortable, scaling the mountainous ridges as if she were one with it. If she could, she would never leave the range again—if she could stand to seclude herself, to remain alone, she would do so without so much as a second thought. But as the girl grew she was beginning to understand life better, realising what she needed and wanted out of it. But something stood in her way, held her back… a memory that refused to leave, haunting her. A memory she wished to confront, to prove to herself that she could manage; she was not the same, scared little orphan girl that spent her life in mourning. She was more than that, she knew, and she would prove it.

It was without a word to anyone that Yama departed from Moonspear that night, her mind set. There was something she needed to get done, something that she needed to lay to rest. She followed a familiar path, one taken once before; sweeping across the land, pace quick and body tense, it was not long before she was back at the glen.

At night, it was different—the land was so dark, ground cast into a world of shadows by the canopies overhead, disallowing the entrance of light. Her steps slowed and turned cautious, ears pricked and swiveling at the slightest of sounds; the various creeks and streams flowed by, bubbling and spitting where rocks threatened to interrupt their flow. The deep, guttural croak of a bullfrog nearby startled her, body spinning around to confront the source, hackles raised and teeth bared. But the frog was quick to launch itself back into the safety of the stream, evading the predator with practised ease. Relaxing, she gave a harsh shake of her head and returned to her previous path, eventually growing accustomed to the songs of the frogs. To the surrounding darkness she grew accustomed, too, and yet it was soon interrupted.

Deeper now into the glen, she came to a sudden halt as a light flickered across her field of vision. A mellow glow, there one second and gone the next—it drifted by the end of her muzzle, hovering for a moment and then shooting off towards the treetops. Ears pinned, she licked her lips and looked on with thinly veiled anticipation, skeptical. At one point, she thought she spied eyes staring back at her, as two glowing orbs hovered amongst the brush. But fear turned to curiosity and curiosity to fascination, an approach made and a closer look taken; the glowing lights were capable of flying, reminding her of a fly or bee—but when one landing on her nose resulted not in a sting but a gentle tickle, she decided they were more like the former than the latter: glowing flies, she thought. Following them led her to more, clusters of the insects swarming, creating their own moonlight in the otherwise caliginous woodland. If given the opportunity, she was sure she could remain there and watch their dance for the rest of her life—but she had a reason for returning there, something she needed to get off of her chest. And, as if sensing this, the glowing flies seemed to part the way for her to proceed.

As time went by, so with it was stolen the scents left behind that day; they were faint at best, hardly noticeable, but present enough for the girl to realise where she was. And as her nares captured those scents, her other senses were soon flooded. Her vision dimmed, shrouded by her creeping anger, and her sides heaved as if she’d just finished a great, lengthy hunt. There was nothing there, no one noticed, and yet adrenaline flooded her system, sending all that she was experiencing into overdrive. Yama swore she could feel teeth graze her nape, drift down to her flank—she swore there was someone there, the man from her first visit to the glen. The feeling lingered only for a moment before being seemingly torn away, and in its absence came the familiar, metallic taste over her tongue. Clenching her jaw, a snarl tore its way out of her throat in real-time, and the girl struck forward—

In her compromised state of mind, the Ostrega tore away from a fox its life. The blood on her tongue morphed with ease from fantasy to reality, jaws gripped tight around the lesser canine’s neck. Ensnared by the replaying of her memories, she remained unaware—to the girl, the blood belonged to the man and he was most deserving, his own teeth having torn her flesh. But for any that might stumble across the scene, they would see her standing there alone, the limp corpse of a young vixen clasped betwixt unyielding jaws—and her gaze, like the fox, was just as absent and unseeing.