With his red-rimmed gaze directed towards the next obstacle which dragged by him, Sylvaine completely overlooked the little fox - blind to it, until its voice rose to a boisterous level. As soon as the sound hit him he was careening out of control, stumbling against the twisting roots of a nearby tree and collapsing in to a bush, like a drunk driver. With a moan emanating from the bush, it seemed as if the pale boy wasn't going to rise... But he did. Slowly.
And when he slid his face out from the dark, not only was the bridge of his nose scratched up from his entry, but the sleek fur of his cheeks and scruff were no longer groomed - a mess of tangled vegetation had netted itself between the fine hairs. He was groggy from the sleepy wandering as well as the fall. Mazarin? Était-ce vous, monsieur?
A prince who was prone to sleep walking? How perfect!