Heron Lake Plateau giblets

In spite of her desire to beat a hasty retreat and remain unseen, Phoebe knew suspicion had been aroused. She heard the bend and break of thin reeds and rustle of withering grass, heard the sound of wet paws against the mud, she heard—no, she felt the collision of him into her backside and how it sent her stumbling forward. In an instant her muzzle wrinkled, pearly rows of teeth revealing themselves in a flash of surprise and irritation; she was no stranger to being slammed into on a regular basis, not with brothers and all. That reaction was a knee-jerk response, there and gone in an instant before she fully turned on Twywll, the only anger left was the bewilderment strewn in her countenance.

”Really?” she hissed lowly, though from the moment it was off her lips she regretted it. Being firm with him hadn't gone so well the last time. Though in honesty, perhaps she hadn't been so much firm with him as she had just flat out screeched in his face for being a jerk. Regardless, she heaved a sigh and kept her distance, finding—trying to, at least—some sort of even keel to proceed from.

He really looked awful, she decided, and made it a point of discussion.

”You're really dirty now dude,” she went on, ”and you shouldn't be playing in the lake either. Mama says that's how you can catch a cold and you'll probably die. Or the lake will take you,” because it had almost swallowed two siblings and a babysitter recently, but she wasn't about to include that faux pas.

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