Morningside Cuesta morning glory

lichen-licked trees and tall shrubbery provided cover for the slender witchman; leaves fell silent around lestan. his honeyblue eyes searched for movement and found it; a hare's ears lifting just beyond a thin screen of deadfall.
unbidden, his mind wandered sharply toward his cousin's guests, formulating in quick math how many days he would need. always beckoning was the taiga, though it was in those wildernesses that he had met the french cougar and experienced a permanent wounding that oozed jet inside his soul.
it was not until he had neatly sprung over the fallen branches and started the hare terrified through the copse that lestan registered he was not alone after all.