Lion Head Mesa what are the odds,

A voice!

It was not ordinary for Mouseberry to be caught off guard, and she cursed herself for her wandering mind. She hastened her step, not too proud to flee, and did not look back. Not even when she heard the strangers voice. It was not the voice of Jawahir, and it could be one of the Great Ones.

The wind, though, was what did cause her gait to slow. Coyote. A Runner. And none with her.

Mouseberry wheeled about, step skittish as she regarded the stranger.

Pretty, she observed, giving herself further pause. That thought had never come to her, for any other. Mouseberry had never before had the luxury of time to assess another in such a way as this. It had only ever been they could kill me, or I could steal from them and live.

It occurred to Mouseberry then that she might die in this place, and if she wanted to live she ought to do as she had done for all of her life. Run.

Life had offered her no kindness or pleasure beforehand, and so a full belly and the breath she still drew had been reason enough to stay. Her paws (that had ached so terribly, but had learned to ignore) did not bleed from going miles beyond what she should, to not be hunted... and the hurts they had felt were fading.

For now, she stayed simply to restore the food she had eaten. To thank them. Then... then she could go.

She could go before all of that; she could do as she was meant to, as her ancestors would after they had done their thieving. She would have, too, had it not been one of their own that led her to this place.

To find food, she answered, to refill what I have taken, to explain further. She had not the social graces to think to ask the same of her companion, who had been going somewhere before happening across her.