Dreams! All these dreams. Foxy was quite excited by these dreams - it made her feel closer to the swamp, as if it had accepted her into the fold as a Totoma, assuring her that she was in the right place. Sometimes she wasn't sure, especially when the humidity of the mangroves caught in her heavy fur and the sun beat down on her extensive scales...the climate change had been quite difficult. At this moment, however, as she looked about wonderingly, the air was cool. Not a chilling cool, a...neutral cool, one that said nothing about the weather, failing to warn of a storm or snow. Just one that hung in the air and was. Her lashes swept up to take in the soft glow of a strange, tall form, throbbing softly with a shine like moonlight - like the pale doe, she smiled. It felt right to go towards it, and her emotional association made the glow friendly, even with the cryptic symbols all over it. Foxy was a Totoma, and she was not afraid. It was no more frightening than her pale doe - friend? - with her concealed eyes and long, wispy hair. It, like the cool air, merely was. Tall, distant, silent. Perhaps seeking. She was not afraid. Foxy stepped up to it, and leaned forward to press the heart of her forehead against the solid form -
- fleeting, it blew through her like the familiar chill of the mountains, the wet of dew on spring blossoms, like the rain on the grasslands under her hooves, all of which made her smile because Foxy was not afraid.
- falling, it was only natural, as rosy petals swirled about her, the fluff of her tails trailing upwards with the drift, the weather was changing, she thought. Why did she think so much about the weather? It was the same here, always -
And it was, always, warm and heavy, and she breathed heavily as she shook off her coat, now-familiar mud under her hooves, the soft terrain same yet different from managing snow. It was the swamp, and Foxy was thankful because the journey was difficult enough once. Oh, it was dark and it was the moon again, a friend. Didn't she think she was the moon? Foxy regarded the moon with a knowing look, daring her to speak, but turned instead to find what she assumed was her speech embedded in the tall stone, glowing like the tendrils of her light locks.
Her eyes started to close, tired of straining to divine meaning, but below the lowered lids she could not tear her gaze away from the meandering swirls of the stone, glowing, glowing. Out of the corner of her vision the landscape shifted, but she was unable to tell what exactly was going on.
Unnaturally, her heart seized on the strange turn of the dream, and recoiled - the glows seized her chest, through her thick fur, pulling, heaving, it was unpleasant. It was uncomfortable. It was awful. It started to rot, pushing against her ribcage, but Foxy was not afraid.
Foxy was angry because it was not the moon, and willed her eyes shut. She reared with a cry, meaning to pull free from its tendrils, and rammed the heart of her forehead again and again against the stone for release, because Foxy was a Totoma, and old habits die hard.