Deepwood Weald Once Again

A pale butterfly flitted round the den's entrance, pursued in dizzying twirls by a certain tiny black puppy. Seelie was still unsteady on her feet, still prone to occasionally tumbling over in a mess of flailing limbs and bell-chime laughter, but that would never stop her. She loved to run and to play — but most of all, she loved to dance.

The butterfly was a very good dancer, she thought! Seelie leapt for it again, giggling as its wings fluttered briefly against her nose. Then it darted away from the den.

Naturally, she followed.