Hushed Willows I'll stake rare toothpicks in my dirt-filled heart

His nose is pressed firmly to the cracked earth, muscles trembling beneath skin as he hoists himself over the rocks wedged between monstrous peaks. Reverie is unsure.
His flank brushes against her as if to say I've got you.
He takes the lead, then; pushing himself past her with the offering of his shoulder for her to lean on, should she need it. Between the spruces he searches for figures buried beneath brush, a clump of blonde fur, something, any sign — and when that does not work, his head tips skyward and from his throat a baying call is sent out into the world. Surely Blossom would have to answer, right?