Firefly Glen Prom queen

With trepidation, Bronco quietly, and without notice, pucked his way down the slope of the Caldera and loped off through the plains. The cool wind rustled the dry leaves that still hung about on the branches, begging for salvation whilst their fallen comrades crunched pleasantly under the rhythmic fall of his feet. 

He felt well enough to keep up his lope, covering ground so that he might be able go stay ahead of any who caught his trail. Still, fear dogged him but presently, it helped spur him on. His first excursion outside the pack's borders on his own since he had returned. 

Some mix of curiosity and nostalgia led him to the Glen where he'd once lived. A place haunted now by the ghosts of the wolves buried alive on Moonspear, and those who had fallen beneath the wild rage of a bear. It wouldn't make a home for him again, not with those being his most prominent memories of the place. 

He heard the sound of crackling bones before he caught sight of the wolf. His nose twitched as he picked up the scent of a fresh kill, and sought out the lone figure whose dark pelt made them easy to spot in the distance. For a second, he was mistaken. "Quetzal?" He blurted suddenly. Doubt crept in as he squinted; no, that wasn't Q. Not enough golden beige in her fur, and while he remembered Q best as a yearling or less, this wolf was too young, he thought, to have been his sister.