Silver light glimmered across the smooth stones surrounding the lakes and outlined the wet grass, the rain that had fallen throughout the day now made the world glisten beneath the gentle touch of the moon. The rain had carried on into the late evening before it made a retreat, now with no sun to cure the world of the dampness that it was left in... everything shimmered and danced with life.
Alone, a marble doll admired this with wide eyes of crystal to reflect every bit of the glittering light they took in while she waltzed through the marsh seemingly weightless. Frogs, avians, and cicadas worked together to create a welcoming orchestra to show their appreciation to all the unusual rain this season, and Moonlit Wreckage's ears were tall and tuned to it all. She loved summer nights, especially in the marshland where she could admire her prey the most.
The mallards were plump, delicious and slow-moving swimmers often floating along the shoreline of the lakes with their young during this time of year. It was a shame that such a beautiful night full of song and dance had to be interrupted by such a murder, but the rogue could not let the opportunity to hunt pass by. The thunderstorms seemed endless and this break's longevity questionable, so amidst the symphony was the sight of feathers flying and teeth snapping beneath the moon's spotlight.
What once was a mallard with dreams of watching her young hatchlings grow strong now lay limp in the jaws of an infertile wolf. Perhaps jealousy might have been a motive, perhaps not- a mother's unwillingness to leave her babies behind was a foolish choice that Moon could not pass preying upon. At least, that is what she told herself as she carried her dinner for one to the island that centered the Marsh, beneath the beautiful willow rooted at its heart. She'd grown fond of sleeping beneath the sound of its gentle rustling... though her chances to listen to the willow's whispers had been pushed fewer and farther between with how often she'd been forced to shelter the storm this season.
Between snow storms last winter and thunderstorms this summer, would Boreas ever give the lone wolf a break? She pondered this to herself while she nestled down at the base of the tree and began plucking the feathers of her meal delicately. All she had in the world was time, and precious time would be given to ensure that this mother's last gift to this world as a meal would be savored. Every feather would be plucked before Moon's teeth would dare start to pull flesh from bones, allowing every taste of delicious duck meat to be unobstructed.
