[A quick piece I wrote up after a long day at work dealing with customers. It’s rough but I hope you enjoy!]

Massani found herself perched upon a rock in the middle of a vast forest. The breeze brought with it scents of this land, of this unfamiliar place where the sun did not bake, where the trees populated the land with such abundance. Such a world past her own that existed longer than she drew breath, and now, as she inhaled, she could swallow the smell of pine, of maple, of the coming chill of a changing season. Moonlight told her the land was in fall, just before the snows came. Massani never witnessed snow before. 

She let one leg drape over the edge of the rock and peered up at the sky. The hot red sunset bled across the blue horizon, dipping beneath the tops of trees in slow, deliberate steps. Massani closed her eyes and exhaled. It had been four months of traveling. More, perhaps. In the thick woods where Moonlight made his home, it was not always easy to tell when the sun awoke. 

With a gentle touch, she reached up and brushed her fingers across the growing mane that hugged close to her jawline. The hairs there were soft, well-groomed and well taken care of, despite the journey that led them here. Upon reaching Anderim, the decision was made to no longer groom it, to keep it cut down. She would let it grow out, and soon, eventually, she would bear the last, full mane from her people.

It would not rival the Matriarch’s mane, that was certain. But she saw its color in the reflections of still waters, and found the warm, desert sand it resembled to be calming and beautiful in its own right. 

Besides, this land gave her chills. Without the heat of the sun bearing down on her, she understood why so many of the beings here wore layers of animal hide. And other hide, it seemed. Some if it did not even resemble fur. 

Massani’s fingers trailed down and stopped at the hardened scar across her neck. Her gaze lifted to the darkening day, the coming of night signaled by the dim glittering of stars. She swallowed thickly and opened her mouth, attempting, once more, to try and speak. 

The rasping sound came in a huff after too much effort, searing agony spreading through her throat. She gritted her teeth and grip her wound, coughing and wheezing from the attempt. Tears of pain burned at the corner of her eyes. There was little use. Her voice was gone. Some sort of serious damage kept it from working right. She exhaled and lowered her hand, peering at her palm for a moment. She wondered what her last words were. Had she said something valiant? Said something remarkable? She couldn’t recall. She had growled, perhaps. Hissed at the hunters. She let her hand fall into her lap. 

It was a curse, perhaps. One she would need to live with, just as all the scars upon her body. Perhaps there were magics that could fix it. She never lived with a Druid before, but she had seen them do remarkable things in battle. Perhaps they could seal the injury in her voice.

But what then? What respect would that give upon those of her family who died? She would bear no wounds from it, hold no damage from what killed her loved ones. Her throat had been cut. She had nearly died. She would wear the mark with pride, and she would find a way to communicate should she need to. 

The moon rose during her ponderings, and her gaze lifted to meet it. The pale surface sat brightly within the dark blue sky, vibrant as the mane of the Matriarch. It took nearly six months for a bhastan’s mane to grow in full, and the Matriarch’s flowed with such elegance and power that showed why she, of all the Pride, survived for so long. 

Massani’s chest tightened and she leaned against her hands, eyes resting upon the moon. It was but a few short months ago that she and the Matriarch sat together, staring at the sky above. Watching these same stars.

That made it hurt that much worse.