She swirls and sings - any.

[Nyxia]

you’ve got a second chance, you could go home
escape it all, it’s just irrelevant..

Nyxia watches the swirl of dust and pollen in the slants of sunlight. She lifts her nose from her puddle of cool, damp shade, pressing her muzzle into the mote. She imagines those tiny specks coming to rest on her nostrils and bridge, and she snorts at the little phantoms of their tickles—they dance away from her, spinning off into the mossy green behind the bright shaft.

She is alone, but not for long. She has become familiar with the moments of errant wildness in her fox and rabbit and deer friends; but also with their internal clocks. How they tick and tock and send them out to eat or put them down to sleep. She counts the moments in breaths and in beats of her heart, quiet in her ears. She can tell the time and guess their return by the shades of the sky—now pale yellow and cornflower blue. Early morning and not long now.

She pushes herself up, her hip and side dampened and stuck with dark earth, gritty and rich against the pale grey-lavender. She leaves a depression in the white windflower and litterfall, the soft cradle where she sleeps without worry because once her father told her he would never let anything happen to her. And she if she believes anything to be true, it is this: nothing can touch her as long as her father exists. 

(He once told her that he was one of the scariest things in all of Beqanna. She doesn’t think so, but just as long as everything else does…)

She waits anxiously for the shrill excitation of their gekkering; the tumble, one and two, three and four, from the underbrush like red and black tumbleweeds. And their mother in tow, weary and panting, her dear friend. Until the sun rises too high, and the air gets too warm; her stomach complains noisily and she turns, apprehensive and sluggish from her den. More and more often, her friend does not come back. She finds a place to still her young family for a moment and rest her eyes. 

Nyxia frowns, stopping for a moment as the panic of loneliness, and the dull ache for comfort, urges her back to her nook to wait, just a tiny bit longer. 

But it would not do, she knows. So she shifts and curls around birches and scratchy pines, glancing over her shoulder now and then, hopeful for a glimpse of them. Of the vixen and her young pups, playfighting; maybe of father...; or of the herd of whitetails, from whom she picked up the soft and delicate grace of her own steps when she found nurturing and company among them as a girl.

Hoping so go as silently as they do, unnoticed and undisturbed like a wooded ghost or a blossom tucked away in a high-up place.

it’s just medicine.

just getting the idea of her so prepare for a learning curve