WC: 489
And then, there was hope. Paws scrabbling and scraping across rocks and sands, heavy breathing indicative of running, a rather startled set of words. Finally, the young babe could release, happy that someone had found her that wasn't going to eat her. The thought of vultures picking over her lifeless, cold form brought shivers to the young whelp, who once again sneezed. The cold was really getting to her now- usually soft downy coat was thin from years of living in constant warmth, little shelter from the elements in this cold part of the land.
Tired, tired, oh so tired... it was unbelievable how sleepy she was, even while being groomed of the sand matting her face and dark, speckled violet nose. A sensation of being lifted into the air surrounded the freezing pup, fending off and yet beckoning Hypothermia to set into her compromised immune system. Something like that would surely lead to her demise, so instinctively, the little fairy curled up into herself, tiny, soft tail curling up between weak hind limbs in an attempt to stay warm.
And now, she couldn't sleep. Finally warm despite the chilly breeze around her now swaying body, safe from immediate harm within the grasp of another dog, and hopefully being brought to a warm, dry place, little Sylvie could not bring herself to sleep. Dark, heavy lids peeked open as each new change in the land shifted her in this fae's mouth (for it was certainly a fae with such a lovely scent), before closing as a terrifying shadow would wreak havoc upon her little form. Dangling rather helplessly from the maw of a stranger certainly was no way to fend of scary shadows and grabby trees, of course, so she left this up to her savior.
A guardian angel this female was, rescuing tiny Sylvie from certain death. After being treated so poorly for so long by her own mother, the little ball of fluff was rather unsure she was worth saving. But one thing held certain, and that was a will to help those who helped her. A little squeak of determination left the little girl as she curled tighter into herself, ignoring the pain in her right forelimb. She had to stay warm. Stay awake. Stay alive. If only so that when she was old enough, she could do nothing more than assist this avenging spirit in mere housekeeping. If something more grandeur would come out of this meeting, then Sylvie would allow it with open paws.
But anything, at this point, would feel grandeur to the little castaway babe.
Speak. Think. Walk.