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Buckley

She'd descended from the sky weeks ago, now. The sun rose and fell routinely, whilst Cvetka was left as idle as a rotting corpse in a den filled with unfamiliar faces—they offered medicine for the agony that throbbed in her delicate forearm, struck up a conversation as though they'd known her for years... thank god she managed to slip out of the Fate's Respite. There was only so much the young dame could handle.

The wolfdog was ever grateful for the assistance—particularly of Amaris, who'd dragged her from the ice's surface in the first place. She found herself pressing her dark-brown nose downward in search of a whiff of his mildly familiar scent, to be able to follow in his tracks and keep him in her line of sight. At least, she knew that he would come to her aid if she so needed. That was something she craved, something she needed.

Pressing through shrubbery, Cvetka limped into the Golden Glade with an ache in her shoulder. The uninjured limb, carrying double the wait it was accustomed to, grew wearied from her escapade, all the while her broken leg remained tucked gingerly to her chest. The small canine raised her head, nose twitching, eyes seeking out a sleek, silver frame—but nothing.

Her head lowered and she continued onwards in her short, hobbled pace. Yet even with the lame girl's leisurely canter, her muscles grew strained, trembling from overexertion—and she was a ways away from 'home,' if she could call it that. Cvetka had little choice but to flop onto her flank and let the frost-laden greenery caress her body. Her head befell the earth with a fatigued huff fanning over the turf, susurrating against the strands of grass.

The sky was littered with minuscule winks from stars overhead. The moon hung and cast her silver light over Cvetka's feathery pelt like a satin film—lids of her eyes began to ease down, concealing the soft blue of her irises.

Before she could drift into any sort of slumber, her nostrils flared. There was a rustle—her ears swiveled forward and stiffly stood over her head, listening intently for another sound. Nothing. Her head swung upwards and began to inspect the land around her, searching for whatever was nearby. As much as she desired to, her withers remained burning with an ache, barring her from hoisting herself onto her 3 fit paws and wandering around to investigate.

It was better to travel during the night.

Pack strangers were cornered off, lonesome strangers had typically bedded down. This left little room for encounters, for which Buckley was relieved. This perceived isolation made him a little reckless as did his hungering stomach and they entwined miserably to make him more or less unawares of the pale little stranger who came to recognize his presence before he did hers.

Buckley only would when he slipped out from within the shadowed foliage made winter hardy and plodded his way into the small meadow where, after a moment of scanning the area, his narrow eyes landed on the seemingly sedate stranger.

Was it—she?—dead?

He lowered his head and slowly approached and then, quite suddenly, let out a shrill yelp as the stranger's head moved.

If he hadn't noticed her inability to stand, he would've ran but as it went now, she was still and staring and he was uneasy.

"Trap?" He called out, tone flat. "Didn't fall for it."

Cvetka caught sight of the stranger the moment she heard him speak. Her hackles bristled, her ears pinned back against her head with a furrow of her brows. The sire was taller than she, visibly stronger. She suppressed a growl; instigation would be the worst move, at this point.

'Trap? Didn't fall for it.' Cvetka immediately tilted her head, ears returning to its upright position. Trap? she barked back, trap where?! Her gaze darted back and forth, but nothing seemed to have changed in her surroundings save for the new presence who stood before her now. Was he the trap? No, surely—was he implying that there was a trap she was stuck in? Her throat rumbled with an uncertain whine.

Close, too damn close—and Cvetka couldn't retreat, as her limbs remained limp from over-exertion. She resorted to turning her head away with a stiff lick of her lips, her tail wagging at her hocks in a placating motion—if you stay away from me, I won't bother you.

Buckley didn't think himself dumb. Did she?

He grunted, waving his head at her. "You," he said, uninterested in her appeasement. "You're the trap. I didn't fall for it." He shifted his weight awkwardly from one forepaw to the other as if he was uncomfortable being so large in comparison... as if it made him a target between them both. Carefully, his eyes drifted from her to their surroundings, cropped ears twitching to any sound of concern. "Get up."

The manner in which Buckley said it lacked any semblance of intimidation, devoid of any malice and, truthfully, any ill intent. It sounded nervous.

He sounded nervous.

"Get up," he said, shifting his weight once more. "Why try to trap someone?"

He had to see her get up... or not, if she was lame. Buckley could leave, turn his back on her, and scurry on.

He hoped she was irreparably lame.

She's the trap?!? Cvetka whined again. She squinted, ears pinning back in agitation. Eyes were darting to and fro. I'm no trap! She barked. All she wanted was to rest her weary body—was that so bad?

With graceless limbs, Cvetka tried her damn hardest to hoist herself back up. Her legs were trembling like a newborn fawn, the injured limb stiff against her chest. It hurt. Cvetka's heart beat faster and she only grew more unnerved with each passing second.

What do you want from me? Her rear was held close to the ground, more so out of submission than of ache. I don't wanna trap anyone! Gaze darted to and fro. Her lips continued to flicker over her nose and narrow maws.