The girl of the forest stares down into the mossy dell. Her piercing eyes, one shimmering green and one birch-bark brown, gleam bright as they stare into the distance. Her dress is made of leaves and twigs, held together by spiderwebs. It seems patchwork, but it holds attention, mesmerizingly beautiful as the girl twitches and dewdrops cascade across it like shimmering stars. Her cloak is heavy and plain, a dark gray like a stormy shadow. A faint golden circlet embossed with a leaf design embraces her soft brown hair. She holds a gnarled yew staff engraved with a figurehead of an owl.

Suddenly, a wolf howls somewhere in the distance, a song of mourning and love and what-might-have-beens. The girl, as if in response, raises her head and opens her mouth. Out pours a song of liquid honey, both peaceful and feral, loving and fierce. A song of comfort and a song of hunt, of moonlit nights and shimmering fur, a song of hunt and shadows and power. A song of nature, of keening winds and rustling leaves and all things wild.

Other animals peek out from their burrows. A hawk alights on a branch nearby. A rabbit stops, spellbound, half-hidden in the long grass. The girl’s pointed fae ears twitch but she keeps singing.

The song fades into the wind as the sun dips below the horizon and the stars blink into view. The girl wraps her cloak around her shoulders and fades back into the shadows she came from, the shadows which are now whispering softly, slowly, secretly: “there is always an adventure waiting in the woods.”

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I hope you like it! The quote is from Katelyn S. Bolds. 

They tell tales of the flamepelts, those flaming foxes who awaken from the night in bursts of fire to wait and watch and wander. They come in the the dark time after midnight when all is silent and even the moon is asleep. They come trotting out of the Igneous Abyss, their flames scorching the sky. They walk among the mortals, observing all there is to see and knowing all there is to know.

The young ones, barely a few centuries old, gambol in circles, staring out at the world so different from their own. The middle-aged ones walk stately in scraggly groups, trying to seem smart. Those who can show off their two or three tails, walking—no, preening—in such odd positions that one can plainly see they have not achieved true wisdom yet.

But it’s the one in the lead that makes the stars stare. She’s stately and tall, her nine tails rearing up above her head like snakes poised to strike. Her fur is lush and auburn, the flames snapping and crackling softly. Her eyes shine like beacons, harsh golden light containing bottomless depths. She has a pristine white patch over one ear and her whiskers are long and gray. She holds her head regally, commandingly, unafraid. She is one who dares to imagine.

Where she goes, her pack follows. They call her the Flamarestii. And when the dawn starts to break through the coat of night, the Flamarestii leads her pack back home.

Behind her, as she leaves, the moon and the stars whisper together.

“May her fire never go out.”

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It's loosly based off kitsune from Japanese mythology, especially the nine-tailed thing, which is supposed to signify wisdom and sometimes immortality. The quote is from what you requested for your calligrophy picturing. I hope you don't mind me stealing it, I thought it was cool (: 

Aaand there goes my quote idea! Oh well... Also kind of random but I love your name, it has such a cool meaning.

Every night rises the stalker of the sky, her stars blinking slowly into view as she readies her bow and arrow and prepares to run. At first she’s just shimmering points with vague connections, but if one were to stare hard enough, her body would start to solidify around the starry contours.

Flashes, at first. Colors. Blues and blacks and shades in-between, blending and blurring like waves curling up and crashing down. Then shapes. Details. A teal waterfall of hair curling down her back, shot through with strands of pink and purple and navy. A shimmering indigo jerkin over stately gray trousers, simple and practical, yet elegant. Stormy gray eyes fixed on her starry prey. A peaceful expression, not hurried or calm but something in the middle, ready and knowing and waiting.

Then she’s off. Running across the sky in chase of her prey. Unstoppable. Immortal.

As the stars shift with the seasons, the girl changes. One day she’s chasing a fleet stag leaping over starry obstacles. The next day it’s a bounding rabbit, nose whiffling. Some days she has a yew bow, other times it’s a pair of hunting knives with ebony handles.

Only one thing never changes. No matter the season or the time, she’s always running like she’s got a pack of wolves in her soul.