The Heartwood Did you hear the one about the dead wolf?

Her logic was sound, a fact that was only frustrated further but the causality of her "dancing" atop his wooden trap. Snow Owl was beginning to consider that his log would be his grave—although a few hungry days in here and he'd be sure to lose some of his mass and probably squeeze out with relative ease. But those days would be highly uncomfortable, of this he was sure.

He realized after her speech that she was older than her sweet voice depicted, probably a year or two older than himself. He had little to no chance of her being interested in his boyish charms, even if she was humoring him slightly. As she sat, woody dust sprinkled down onto his face and muzzle. The thick air tickled at his nostrils, flooding them before it became too much for his sensitive sense of smell to handle. He began to inhale sharply, feeling his swelling shoulders press painfully against the sides of the log, before a massive sneeze overtook him, and the young wolf was jerked backwards, freed from his would-be coffin.

"Wow, who knew allergies would save me." He scooted the remaining way out of the log, erecting his long, tall frame and giving his spiky fur a shake (not that it cleaned him much). He looked up at his "rescuer", brown eyes glinting mischievously at her. "Well... I wasn't wrong," he mused, glancing up and down at her pointedly.