Blackfeather Woods bruised by god

Ocra doesn’t know where to begin. She can’t back track her way out of the forest since he’s taken her all over the place, crossing their scents intentionally. If she tries to walk around until she finds her way out, she runs the risk of danger—either in the form of another wolf, or something unfamiliar on the ground—but it is less than ideal. Calling for someone runs the same probably as the first, since she’s already in the territory, but if she sounds apologetic enough, maybe they’ll understand?
 
Either way, she does not have a chance to decide when the sound of another approach. She flinches at the sound, swinging her head to reveal two sightless holes in her head, and she immediately shrinks back. Ocra does everything she can to make herself small, touching the ground with the underside of her muzzle, but a beat later she turns to expose her throat (hopefully in the direction of the stranger).
 
“I-I—” she hoarsely manages. She takes a breath and tries again, if allowed. “I didn’t… please, I didn’t mean, He made me,” she pleads.