Deepwood Weald Resurrection

Wicken steadied himself as he traversed the seemingly never ending forest. His dark pelt gave him near perfect cover as he wound through the trees. He was caught up in a battle of wits with his own mind as he continued a pristinely accurate bee-line to the other side of the forest. His sides ached with a distasteful reminder of exactly why he was winding his way through this silent forest. The wounds would still sting whenever his sweat got too thick, so he slowed to a walk when it became almost unbearable.

Orange eyes smoothly surveyed his surroundings. They were always kept even with his shoulders as he peered through the thick foliage to see if he was perhaps alone. A stance he could not shake. His panting was stress related, but one might think he was overheating if they happened upon him now. Wicken took the moment of silence to try and calm his shot nerves by scenting the air around him. He caught a whiff of another in that moment, and he spun to face the scent. His too long legs almost tangled in a net at the velocity of his turn.  To his dismay, the clearing was not empty. 

Another stood there. He felt his heart drop into his stomach as he placed some distance between him and the stranger. He faintly wished he hadn’t been seen, but there was no escaping this. Wicken flattened his ears and kept his eyes trained on the ground. He was not one to speak to another first, especially not one who was obviously older than his lanky self.