There is pursuit, but not the first, nor it seems, the last. There are things, creatures that be things, and feelings also, that rub the raiment of the night upon their bristled cheek. Coal dark velvet wraps their shadowed movement, darker than night, for night is mere absence of light, here there never was. She runs, but fear is no companion, for the light that is missing in ‘The One’, is present in this running waif. Fires stoked are fires hot, though they have yet to be turned loose. Does the beast that trails this child, sense the power yet unleashed? Woe be the creature, that stalks a precious prey, for though it takes much to unleash a fury, the fury knows no bounds… nor sympathy it seems, for those who lay in wait. Innocent she appears, and be it seems, but appearance is but a layer. Shed the coat, restraint is lost, the layer drops unheeded. What remains is fear indeed, for those who chase in earnest. This youthful prey, be not it seems, the reward that they have sought. A coiled spring of light and power, she fears no padded feet. She turns at last, at heavy sounds, at footfalls close behind. She smiles at last for chase is done, tables turned it seems, for vengeance wrought is vengeance sweet, for those who light the dark.