Blackfoot Forest Furling forests for the soft

@Kierkegaard

Fiery dusk set on the edges of the lush forest and sunlight's last rays trickled down to the very bases of towering trees before fading to the west. Deep within, it hadn't much mattered how brightly and insistently the sun still shone, and the tangle of creeping vines and reaching branches were prime physical evidence; below the thick canopy of the old wood, there was only enough room for heavy darkness.

Moz, with conveniently camouflaged pitch black fur, moved deliberately and soundlessly as could be among brush, impossibly craggy roots and the ocassional pitfall of a hole that might snap the leg of a negligent animal. She was inherently sure-footed, with long, lissome legs and dextrous, balanced paws that felt telling details of the cool earth beneath them before placing her confidence in such steps. Survival was never a guarantee.

A faint rustle in a coarse thicket of foliage directly to her right prompted one ear to snap to attention. Her head whipped around with blinding speed while her lithe body twisted and her strong hind legs launched her entire form straight at the vaguely discernible movement.