Firefly Glen but when i go to sleep at night, don't you call my name

Riley's back was turned while Tiercel edged through the tussock, army-crawling out of his periphery by the grass' generous cover. A rustle of reeds shivered by the wind elicited one of Riley's ears to turn back; when he slowly rotated in spot, he saw nothing but reeds upset by the early summer breeze.

He was sure something was lurking -- so sure of it -- but at last doubt beset his confidence, and he set to moving away when a voice, more chilling than unexpected water down one's back, rung out from behind him.

Riley turned slowly, his tail puffed like a pinecone and a scizzoring of razorbacked tufts lifting along his spine. Fear bolted through him, yet for all of the speed in which it seized his heart, his body was painfully slow. Finally, his gaze beheld the sprite in the brush -- but this was no hobgoblin resident of a child's nighterrors. This was a wolf, slicked down in the blue moonlight by an eerie liquid Riley knew all too well.

One could almost hear the whirs and clanks of his mind processing it all; the way she lurked out of reach like a phantom, the presence of blood heady and thick on her pelt, the coldfire glint of challenge in her gaze. "You aren't scared?" He breathed at last, relieved that she was not the cyclopsian terror that often lingered in his more nervous thoughts. "Are you bleeding?"