Blackfeather Woods your heart is warm

it is her fault, really; caught up in following the trails in her own home, she is blind to her surroundings, made dull by the security she used to feel here. she is on edge, wanting to find some clue as to why this place is empty, but wary at every corner, every dim shadow, for fear she might see her mother's lifeless stare boring back at her. it is stupid, she knows, but it—

someone, something, headed directly toward her. a hare, dimly acknowledged, and then it, he, is there. she is purely reactionary as she leaps, fangs bared for his face, snarl torn from her not in aggression, but in shock.