Fox's Glade boniface

god had smiled upon him again, and it came in the form of five large talons aimed at the dark-hooded attacker. rancid breath stung his nostrils, and for the first few wicked seconds, andras did not know fear; only gratitude.
the unholy roar sounds from behind him as he scrambles to get away, the throbbing agony burning away to numbness as he tumbles behind a shrub. what does one do, in a situation like this? he could run, take his chance to scramble, leave the heathens to be taken by the ursine. leave it up to fate; up to their own will to survive and find him again, bring him to his undoing.
or, perhaps, he could save his reputation. risk his own safety for the slim chance that they may hear his hymn and turn their teeth away.
in the meantime, he is frozen, crouched out of sight, but surely not out of mind. time slows as a glossy pair of obsidian eyes scan for him through the brush, and her offspring huff along beside her.