The sound of footsteps, despite being obviously far too light, made his fur bristle. Panic seeping in. The lynx, it’d come to claim its prey.
He craned his body with a hollow sounding hiss. He stopped at the rather small cat. At least small in comparison. He hadn’t noticed him, though if he came from the trees that’d explain it. Even so, with a whit pelt? He’d blend into winters blanket.
“I’m fine” his body flushed with embarrassment, how much had this cat seen? Enough to be concerned. Probably saw him fumble the hunt and land like an overexcited kit walking for the first time.
He didn’t try and get up yet, he knew he couldn’t. Instead he glared at the stranger and rolled. Pushing himself into the ground and rolling onto his back. Hating the utter stupidity of the situation. The vulnerability of having his stomach exposed to the air. It felt horrible, and yet he knew from experience that it’d help his body regulate again, for the blood to stop pooling in his paws and return to his brain. He stretched out with a grunt. No other cats had this problem, no one else he’d met had any cure for it. Herbs didn’t work.
All he had was tricks to help.
He eyed down at his paw, flexing his claws in frustration. So incredibly foolish. That’s all he was. Foolish and stupid. Incompetent at best.