Twisted Slough i wish you'd die in the mire

Cormorant's breath held - his paws frozen as his ears swiveled. His head turned slowly, brow furrowing as if he was in disbelief; it could be a trick of his mind, like the snap of a branch setting birds a-flight for no other reason than a what if?

But it was too distinct a sound and too near to be the far signal of a storm preparing to tear into the ground and through the air. He instantly drew up, shoulders tense and hackles rising along his spine. His nose tried to fight for a sign of recognition, but he had nothing to anchor on.

Cormorant didn't utter a sound like he had before, instead trudging quicker through the gloom - trying to hurry and place more and more distance between him and the presence not long behind. His paranoia faltered from its scream in his ear to one instead of self-judgement, was he truly afraid of his own shadow? He needed off of the ground proper, he just needed some kind of vantage - his front paws scrabbled out a damp, wilting branch, or tall root maybe, before him, thick enough to steady him, low enough to reach. Anything to get out of the mud and muck below.