twitch cannot properly name not explain the phenomenon that it is, but after a certain point—like clockwork—everything blends into one. it is the singular, most frustrating consistency of her existence. 

it haunts her—taunts her—with every waking moment—to see his face on a stranger’s and know that she is mistaken. it is a cruel fate, but perhaps it is one she deserves. it is a punishment she has earned, because who was she to believe that peace was within grasp.[

so once more, she runs. the girl runs, runs, runs until she is far from the home she was offered. now, it is quiet, and time has melded once more.

it leaves her listless, it makes her itch—it is a drowning, aching sensation, all the while she is flailing her forelegs to swim to a surface that keeps rising. a mess of her own design, but she is drowning nonetheless.

now, water moves in ripples at her feet, pulling at the gravelled shore like it means to swallow it whole. half-sunken into silt, she feels the pull herself, and oh how she wishes. it is an old instinct, that want for oblivion, and it entices her to no end.

---

El Coyote [/font]!

He doesn't know why he travels. It's an instinctive thing, he figures. A distant calling to recompense for all the years he spent circling cages or pits or hidden-away yards. It doesn't matter really. Coyote's moving and he can only think of the ground beneath his paws.

This terrain is familiar to him in ways. It's flat and empty and the distant sound of water rippling almost soothes him.

Almost.

Coyote crests the little incline that leads a snaking path to a somewhat-inlet. He sniffs. She is, like many, small and, like many, in his way forward. The distance between them is not significant. He's sure she's smelled him by now. This makes him sure she'll hear his low woof. Not a threat.

Not a warning.

He just wants to make her scurry.

He just wants to be alone.

it is sound rolling over water, low and unimpressive, that breaks her from her trance. her eyes drag from the ripples to the darker shape beyond them, and something in her face goes flat all at once—there is no spark of alarm left in her to give the stranger.

a body across the way. a man—burly with broad shoulders and corded muscle all through his limbs.

for a beat, she looks through him. a short, vacant stare as if someone hit her reboot button. for a second—just one—she thinks maybe if she stays still enough, he might turn into someone else or disappear. or perhaps she would. she'd certainly like to now.

always back to instinct, her tail tucks against closer her legs. a pink tongue darts to lick her lips. ..yes?

---

i hate this post my bad :')

It's the last thing he wants to hear.

Words.

A little grunt escapes him. So much talking.

Well, he's not going to change his path for her.

He advances, head held low and the scraps of his ears flicking here and there. As he nears, he wonders if she's been hurt with how still she was and how still she is.

"Pareces un ciervo herido." (You look like an injured deer.) He says, coming to a stop some foot or so before her, lets his gaze drift over her before settling on the water. "Bueno, ¿y tú?" (Well, are you?)