Lost Creek Hollow a lonesome star in a bitter sky

In the silence that reigned in the scant minutes to follow, he assessed what he could of his situation. The difficulties therein made it increasingly troublesome to sort though and just when he thought he was making headway, the sound of rushing footfalls got his attention. He could not see their source and found that in spite of trying to hear them, he could not tell from the heaviness whether they were canine or feline.

It took him too long to figure out where it was coming, though he bared his teeth instinctively until he spied out Harlyn's figure in the gloom. She had come to a stop by then, but her anticipation was palpable. He tensed, a certain pit of discomfort pulling him to sink just a little lower to the earth. The inability to see that larger picture troubled him, but keeping his own anxiety at bay was proving to be a larger threat that he could figure.

Finally, he whined in response to her own, finally finding his voice though no real words found their way out. If the cougar was still there, he wanted to believe she would not linger. But the whining on his end was more of a comfort to reach out to her, to draw her in; trying to get a better look at her was only straining his neck.