Firefly Glen Shut me up

Death and decay were the end of all creature. An inevitability bound to beings that so greatly feared it. Even when one's end meant the beginning and persistence of another.

The dead fed the scavengers, their bones the soil. In turn, the soil bears the plants and feeds the prey. The prey feeds the wolf, and the wolf dies once they can feed no more.

Both cyclical and web-like in nature, the balance of life and death. The survival of one was often earned at the death of another.

Hawthornn too feared the end; his own end. As was the nature of a beast.

So it was his nose he followed, as the rancid tang of iron dispersed on the air. His hope for a meal benefited by the misfortune of another.

It was misfortune he found, but no meal.

The silvered huntress he had met in the cedar forest. The white fur of her limbs stained with crimson. Her scarlet eyes empty and despondent.

"Who did this to you?" Was a thought that came to mind, but Hawthornn knew the answer. He could see the stain upon her chin. 

The young Goldenwoode's approach is made openly. No skulking behind the bend or stalking through the trees. He makes to join her at her tree, but stops a few strides short.

His voice is level, but tempered by gentleness, as he asks, Do you need help?