Firefly Glen The Masquerade

@Osiris

Moth to flame, the typically solitary creature is drawn to the myriad scents of a new pack; intrigued, even captivated. She must see it, know it. She needs it as much as she needs to eat and breathe. The absence is almost painful. And so the phantom has waited, and planned, and prepared — and this is the culmination.
She comes bearing a gift, drifting toward the borders on light feet with the long, twisted neck of a slain swan between her teeth. The kill falls from her jaws and she goes still, scanning and watching as if being observed herself. Then, she calls for an audience, low and long, taking a single step back from her gift. It is time to sate her curiosity — and perhaps stay for a time, or else be on her way to the next curiosity. She is young, after all, and all the time and curiosity in the world is hers for now. There is so much she has not seen yet; this little pack is but one corner of the world. Still... she has grown fond of this particular corner, even in the beginning stages of her acquaintance with it. So many young, strong wolves here, by the scent; beautiful, she imagines. Her nose twitches, tail tossing once. The yearling knows nothing of virtues like patience or self-control; she knows only beauty and pain, danger and purpose, life and death — and her own endless

e n d l e s s

greed.