Fishblight Mire Shatter myself, I don't care

Her outstretched paw, caked in a layer of dark murk that hid the true butter cream of her fur, wrapped around the branch that he had moved closer towards her. But only her blunt nails scraped and dug in against the rough bark, while she stretched further, trying to hook her wrist around it. Malila's further efforts to free herself were useless.

As anyone may guess just by looking at her, she didn't pack much in the way of muscle. She wasn't made for strength or for fighting. Again, she thought back to that day in Rivenwood, not so long ago. Of how she'd been afraid. Of feeling so hopelessly useless. It was pathetic. She was pathetic. When she got out of her predicament and this hellish place, then, would she even want to go back? 

Soft, upturned eyes flicked to the gentlemanly male. He couldn't be far from her own age. Surely, he knew more than she did, of looking after himself. Reaching her muzzle out tentatively to the stick, she whispered a whine, nodding wordlessly.