Meadowlark Prairie eighty-third

With nothing but a hare that had been mauled by her own mouth, she drifted far. Stopping many, many feet behind them and bellied to the ground. Machiavelli joined them. Zaahira joined them. Dangling on a long chain with few intentions of returning to the masters until she felt the snap of their distance. 

And when it appeared she would not return, caught up to walk slowly beside their erpa-ha. Before Zaahira would nip her ears for slinking away, she offered apologies that came in her tongue swiping over her own lips and the vicious movements of her own tail. Even after so, her eyes, her ears, they could not stop darting their way around as scopes. Very rarely would they find her eye contact. She did not care to give it.