Witch's Marsh broken arrows

The sudden commotion of the coyote jumping up and her sharp yelp of pain sent Swift fleeing, but in his blind haste he stumbled over a boulder not two feet from where he had been standing. He lay cowering, his nails driven into the ground, his tail curled about him, and his fur like quills along his spine. He expected pain, an attack, something, but there was nothing, and then she spoke. He relaxed, but only just — his muscles remained tense and his heart continued to beat wild.

"Your leg?" he straightened up until he was sitting, facing in her direction. His ears were pricked forward. He swallowed. "It's hurt? I—I can help," he stammered, though his scar-torn face scrunched as he contemplated his own offer. He leaned forward, prepared to move toward her to inspect her injury, if she would let him near. Yet still there remained a part of him that wished to turn tail and run home.