Rachel's Floetry

She plants her boots until she’s rooted, and ready to engage. The axe on her shoulder wielded by solid hands — a resolve to match. A demon adversary with Goosander fangs enters the fray. With mottled purple flesh, like Gloxinia Empresses, poised to attack. A towering wolf. His fur, and the fog, are the same…

Her village, nothing more than scorched wood on a map. A cursed land. Mother says she owes her life to the wolves. At eighteen, sturdy, and ripe, she chops lumber, and lifts her axe with limber ease. The wind scratching her cheeks, so sublime, she fails to heed eventide until she hears them. Demons. Prowling…

Her earliest memory. Burning lumber, and strangled screams. He feels as solid as hickory. The heady smell of soil, and the comfort of matted emery fur under her belly as she hangs bonelessly — draped over him like a mantle. Running. Running. Running. Two umber eyes are the last kindness she sees. Her adopted mother…