Firefly Glen [PHE] the type that makes me feel old

There was discourse. The night was silent--Akavir missed the sound of the rushing waters of their creek. 

An eye opened to the night, uncertain what woke him. Groggy--the darkness yawns before him, the promise of daylight to come in only a spare few hours. There's a brush of the ground... soft.

It does not draw his suspicion, but it stills him, nonetheless.

Salt in the air--so faint, and yet the teasing lilt of the autumn night breeze--

Suddenly, there is shuffling. The sweeping sound of a thud--and he's up, ignoring the complaint of his muscles.

The shrill bark of Cygnet is what draws him to run, and his gaze is suddenly focused with the adrenaline that propels him now.

Snarls--the scent of salt turns to iron.

A form tries to dart away--away from his girls--and it's with punishing teeth and a sturdy form that makes to halt the intruder, his own snarl gutteral and terrible.

The rage of a father.

He's a shadow as he moved to block her--to snap his jaws to pin--to push down to the ground with halting clarity the wolf who dared trespass on them in violence.