Phoenix Maplewood if everything is honey, & i am what i eat...

@Sanguinus!
Setting Evening, during return journey.
Time Sometime during 1.23-1.27.

Aure didn’t want to dwell on the her excursion. She didn’t want to recall those she’d met along the way to and from Diaspora. For once, a rare moment, thoughts of her brother faded from her weary mind. Worries of going into estrus — she hadn’t — during her journey had receded as well. No. She wanted to sample this... whatever this was that gurgled like burnished blood from the puckered veins of the maple. From the smell of it, it was rather sinful in its delectability. On top of that, she could detect no telling that this may be poisonous. 

The world seemed to dim around her, and for a rare moment, she was a little whelp again; some babbling moon-maid. Like then, she now had an insatiable sweet-tooth, and a penchant for being entirely unawares of the crones that may lure her away and into their own bellies.

And since she felt rather travel-worn and deserving... why not?

Hesitant above all else, the porcelain skayona edged closer to the bleeding maple, nostrils flaring inquisitively. If she peered with much focus, she could almost spy the hazy case of herself in its dark depths; but then her nose alit upon the sap, tongue following in a rasp, and she just about lost it.

Suddenly feverish with an abandon of childish enthusiasm and none of the courtly elegance she’d always preened in, Aure tucked in for a feast that she believed, frankly, was well-earned. All the while, her tail flared with girlish delight, and she gobbled up heaps of said syrup without a single, immodest care of who would see.

In the end, as she drew away, the viscous, ambery remained slathered among the white velvet of her muzzle, oozing in globs upon the pink of her nose. The pads she swept along in an attempt to rid herself of it proved futile.

Oh. Oh no.

Quivering with some hazy, helpless anxiety, she shook her head to and fro, but that seemed to make the syrup all the more resolute to stay. A soft, strangled whimper left her, and then began a fervent search for some moss; for some stream nearby. At the moment, it seemed as if those two properties were more myth than matter.