Twisted Slough le moineau a volé

Right, only happy songs at her funeral.

The morbid humor was not entirely lost on her, but the grim reality of what was going on did settle in her briefly. It was a flickering thought, the consideration and questioning internal of what exactly she was doing herself. What if this had been her, unable to get out? Would the swamp have eventually sucked her in and suffocated her? It sent an icy chill along her damp, muddied spine to think of such a thing.

But Phoebe dismissed the idea—she was far smarter than that. The swamp may have been nothing more than a decaying bog but she had her experience with mudholes before. The plateau had been littered with them along the lake after all. As her companion began to slowly free herself, she focused on that instead, her tail beginning to wave encouragingly from where she lingered on the sidelines.

And naturally, Phoebe thought even she sounded winded from the ordeal. Not surprising, she'd been buried quite well. But now the yearling hoped that she was able to manage on her own and found that she was hoping their conversation would end soon. There was much to do and see, and being in the company of someone from her relative's pack did not settle well with her still.

"I suppose if you head... that way," she suggested in the way she came, "you should be able to get out in time. Stick close to the trees if you can, they should help I'd think."