Lion Head Mesa toy soldier's march

Andalib's ears immediately perked, head swiveling to the sound - faint and echoing as it was. He almost thought he had imagined it, sniffing the air like he would scent anything beyond wet, red clay. He was walking forward, uncaring of the squelch of wet ground beneath his paws, apprehension making his coat bristle.

The feeling of it sticking to his paws was worse than wet sand, far more cloying and refusing to budge until he was wading through stained water. Each noise was harder to track than the last, but he continued to delve, squeezing beneath precarious and overturned rubble; digging and scratching through clotted silt.

I'm here! Andalib called, flinching when his own voice echoed back to him. A taste of doubt crept into his mind, and he almost felt foolish - and yet he remained, aimlessly wandering deeper into the now-stagnant cavern; if someone was still here, he had to try.