Meadowlark Prairie whatever's lost cannot be found

The water seemed to clear the mugginess of her thoughts, though her headache still pounded. She lifted her muzzle, dripping - and movement uncoiled behind her. She started, but she was too late before she even moved, and jaws fastened around her neck. Her body fell, suddenly heavy and cumbersome, her head splashing into the riverbed. She snorted, writhering, but stopped short when fangs scored her scruff and her windpipe scrambled for air. She is suddenly hyperaware of every movement, of what this boy could do, given the chance. Still, she can't help the curse that slips through her lips. Suddenly she twists, desperately, not going to lie down and die. Or be skinned. Or eaten. Her back limbs buck upwards, looking to deliver a kick to the stomach of the brute and get the maniac off her. Terror is strangely absent, perhaps drowned out by shock and a frigid cold that spread through her from nose to tail.