Redsand Canyon days of creation

renard was never this used to sunlight before the canyon. there was little in the way of places to hide when the red sand and scrub brush stretched all the way to the horizon; the canyon walls all they had, not nearly enough to keep cool. a little shadow to melt away in, but flat sand and dirt wasn’t what their northern coat was made for. all the practice in the world wouldn’t change that.

the pass was the most comfortable. an overhang of red cliff and evergreen trees; there was plenty of cover down the canyon, even in the glare of the morning sun. they slipped down the passage to accompanying birdsong, the gentle bubble of water in the drying stream; plenty to mask the barely-there tread of paws on rock.

and then there was colin.

he appeared out of the corner of their eye, a black-and-white figure in the shade of the trees. barely noticeable. he was always barely noticeable; hovering in the background, watching. and was that on purpose? he could just as well be anxious as calculating. finley’s silence spoke of something behind it, something thoughtful, something well on its way to being dangerous. an entire conversation carried on the heels of metaphor and implication said something about the people it belonged to.

and what did colin’s speak of?

under cover of the trees, their gait shifted, slowed to a halt. the first question: how long would it take him to notice he wasn’t alone?