Firefly Glen made it out alive, but I think I lost it

The morning light paints the outskirts of the valley in amber, lacquering tree bark crimson and blades of grass a warming green. Paler blues mount the midnight sky to wash away the darkness. As rays of warmth began to soak into charcoal fur, the woman stirred with a croaked groan, dark lashes fluttered open. Pushing back against stiff muscles, Gjalla forced an upright position. She doesn't wait for the wave of vigilance to reclaim her body before pivoting from the ridge, tracing the stone path back into the heart of the glen. 

The gnawing hunger in her belly guides her steps, urging her onward as she moves with purpose. Black-tipped ears curve to the sound of rushing water - it spins webs in her mind, an old familiarity to when the woman committed the Stormrift's rivers to memory. Her body turns rigid before she registers his figure, their scent stinging the inside of her nose – a stranger. Competition, if she was particularly unlucky.

She stood at the edge of the clearing, her ebony-blue form framed by the shadows of the trees. The princess was half tempted to turn, leave them to their solitude, and drink downriver and hunt elsewhere so she would not have to deal with them, but Gjalla did not pride herself on cowardice. Begrudgingly, the woman pads forward. She maintains the gap between them, lingering at the opposite side. The water ripples against her paws as she dips her head, pink tongue lapping at the liquid in eerie silence. Periwinkle eyes do not leave them, no, staring daggers at the beast.

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all welcome !! bring me your dogs...