Lion Head Mesa A new fantastic point of view

a man, roughly the size of the escaped princess (if not smaller) ambled down the hallways of the mesa, visibly dispirited.

crowfeather was on his mind all the time, and gucci couldn't believe how little effort was put into finding the disabled man. as of recent - specifically, as of breakfast - he had even managed to convince himself that his friend was dead; eaten alive by vicious tigers, or whichever animal it was that lived in the forest. 

that was, surprisingly, a brighter thought than the one that had kept him awake the past few nights; that crowfeather was lost or rendered immobile, doomed to starve at an agonizing slowness, alone and frightened out in the wildernesses - while gucci, his guardian, glutted himself on his portions of meat, incapable of helping his charge in any way that wouldn't result in his own death.

the man sighed. even the tag upon his collar seemed melancholic in the noise it made, a sad series of tink, tink, tinks.

unbelievably, he almost didn't see the child. in fact, he passed by her, muttering a "good evenin'" as he went, not thinking it odd to see a dog his size on the street.

except that this wasn't a street, and there were no dogs in akashingo.

"young lay-dee!" the bewildered chihuahua whipped his head around, followed by his body. "what are'cha doin' out 'ere?!" he padded up to the youngling, the dog tag making a fierce tink tink tink as he went. 

they were on eachother's eye-level, which surely wouldn't last another couple of weeks. "don't your ma' know where y' are? come on, back in the cradle wi' you, off we go." he began nudging the fuzzy pale thing back down the hallway, awakening some ancient herding instinct within himself (his maternal pedigree was quite poorly researched).