the weald she finds herself in is stunning. the canopy is painted in all the colours of full, broad brushstrokes of red, orange, yellow and brown. underpaw, leaves crackle, their earthy smell settled heavily throughout the wood. it would be the perfect autumn, save for the lingering undercurrent of unease, the rumbling of the earth.
Cinnamon moves along the bottom of a ridge, a sharp outcrop of earth that reaches across an open glade and appears surprisingly fresh. it is quite, breeze teasing through her fur, birds oddly still. the moment stretches a moment longer, and then snaps—a flock of starlings takes to the sky, and the earth begins to move.
she starts, familiar with the rumbles but still surprised by them every time. and then, they increase, the earth a growling beast between her paws. earth and stone begins to fall, and she begins to run; the earth seemingly turned to liquid. panic swells, and the next few moments pass in a blur of reaction and terror.
then, suddenly, it's over. she finds herself on the opposite side of the glade, covered in earth and dust, the ridge-half crumbled and a pile of rock where she stood last. panting, she paces the edge of the glade, utterly on edge as she tries to come to terms with what had just happened, almost certain the earth will attack her again.
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