Firefly Glen [BWH] névoa ‹‹

the marmot still steamed in the grass where margarida had placed it, a small curl of warmth in the autumn air. she had not moved far from it— perhaps ten paces— when the sound of footfall carried through the hush of the fields. heavier than her own.

she lifted her head.

two shapes came through the gold: a broad, dark male with eyes like pine-shadow, and a smaller one trailing behind, all angles and growing limbs. the wind brought their scent first— old blood, pine pitch, and something faintly familiar. family, perhaps. the thought made her jaw loosen.

boa tarde, she greeted, voice quiet but steady, a ripple of melody behind the foreign tongue. her gaze drifted to the boy, then the rabbit clutched between the man’s teeth. she saw the story in it—the shared hunger, the teaching, the season’s edge.

her own catch lay between them, humble and still. there is enough, she said softly, tilting her muzzle toward the marmot.

the boy’s ears twitched, eyes bright. she smiled faintly—thin as reedlight!  

a pause, then—i am margarida, she offered, or magui, voice warm as the south wind, and you?