Barrow Fields a twist, a tale, a rip through my sail

The whooping clamor that came from the east-end of the sward caused Lusca to startle. Her heart scuppered and she flailed to the right side in one unthrifty sweep, plashing through the puddle. In her urgency her foundered paw sucked into the clay-like substrate and twisted wrong––a shrill yelp pealed from her throat. Her immediate thought was that the wailing specter was Caiaphas come to collect her mislaid soul, and she was loath to go back into the custody of the briny litch. She began to run, throwing a panicked look over her shoulder.

As the figure jounced up and down through the tallgrass, it became abundantly clearer to Lusca that the gunmetal frons did not belong to the wicked woman, but another contact entirely. She pumped the brakes and her ears flew backwards. "You!" She roared, haunches screaming to a halt into the ground. 

His inbound form did not show any intention of halting, and if she knew this guy as well as she thought she did, she was sure that the pilot helming that plane was poor at navigation and even poorer at sticking the landing. As soon as he inevitably crashed into her, she had half the mind to wrestle him to the ground and sink her teeth into his gizzard. 

"AND JUST WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!"