Firefly Glen and the sky is clear and bright

"Waawaashkeshi," Gwyn echoed, savoring the sound of the name as if it were something delicate, a gift offered under the starlight. She welcomed the touch of the stranger’s muzzle, returning the gesture with a gentle, open warmth. The pleasure of such company — unexpected and genuine — brought a soft glow to Gwyn’s own expression.

"I was just wandering," she said, her gaze drifting to the canopy of trees stretching overhead, where the moonlight sifted down like powdered silver. “My birthpack is much further east.” She felt a faint pang of longing for those gentle fields, where the grass rose tall and wildflowers painted the ground in splashes of color. But there was a part of her that cherished the mystery of roaming, of following her curiosity through places unfamiliar.

“What about you?”