Blackfoot Forest gossamer

She was the smallest, but not often the quietest. Yet she strolled silently, cautiously, alarmed and all at once elated to be alive. “Most Elderly?” Her voice light, but shaky, ever hopeful she’d get a reply. Though Littlest One didn’t call out too loud, frightened that she might shattered the peace of the forest—that something far beyond her vision would awaken in the dark and surge forth to seize her. It was troublesome to walk soft, though she attempted as she ambled across the scattered dry leaves at her feet, the crunching beneath inevitable with the way the pixie limped from her broken wing—a wound hindleg that she tucked close to her body.