The Sentinels wargemont

Perhaps the trees knew of his many thoughts, and hoped to drive such things from him before they festered for too long. He could not know this. Renoir felt the ache of where he had hit the ground and while nothing appeared broken, he knew that his soft skin would bruise easily. From up top, where the roots spanned the small pit's edge like some sort of halo or crown, he saw her little face again.

Oui, I must be more careful, he struggled to his feet and noticed with a slanted gaze that his golden pelt was tarnished, the gold made in to a muted bronze by the dirt. He sighed softly, finding his appearance more unpleasant than the sharp feeling in his foreleg or the tenderness of fresh bruises. Climbing out was easy enough, though it caused more dirt to be dislodged, and once he stood beside Deirdre's pristine figure he felt utterly improper,

I must wash — he thought aloud, his accented words further distorted by a vague unease, — then we shall find da flowers, Renoir had not meant to break his promise to her, yet he was overwhelmed by the sensation of dirt in among the hairs of his pelt, and he briefly put her happiness aside.