the best laid plans of mice and men

Vesper · 02-19-2012, 07:53 PM

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She isn't very experienced in this rescuin' business yet.

Word Count → 394

Footfalls announced the approach of a canine, and Vesper crouched lower as if she could press herself into the earth. Tan paws tread on the path ahead of her, and then paused. Her ears cocked forward as her nostrils flared, telling her that this was the old coyote she’d scented, a slave by her best guess. The stench of submission marked some individuals from others, and she was certainly different than the combatants that had surged to meet the intruders not a handful of minutes before—whether because of her actual standing, or where she lived, or the food she ate. It was different, and different enough for the coywolf to consider making her move. She half expected the woman to call out to her, first, from the long moments she paused as if aware of her, but the slave moved on.

The young fighter frowned, wondering how easy this would be. Certainly, stealing a slave away from a pack would be difficult, but she didn’t want to jump out and talk to this woman only to get claws to the face. Making up her mind, realizing she wouldn’t have another chance and that the Salsolans could be following her disguised scent trail, she finally crept out from under the bushes and sidled behind the coyote.

Vesper directed a low hiss at the woman, her ears swiveling before falling back as she looked at the tawny slave. “I’m here to save you,” she breathed, before realizing how childish this claim sounded. A ditzy heroine in a child’s tale would say such a thing, but now was not the particular time for more eloquent speeches.

Chancing a turn of her head, nose pointed toward the woods, she went on. “There’s fighting. I want to get you out.” Her entire body was a bundle of nerves. “I know a place to hide, outside the territory. They won’t be able to find you.” She ventured one step forward, still taut in case the slave did not understand and wanted to strike at her. She’d heard tales of such creatures becoming zombielike after years of abuse, and she held an escape route in her mind in case the elder would let up a cry.

“I’m Sparrow,” the coywolf added, her sister’s name dropping from her lips in addition to the other forced-quiet words spilling from nervously working jaws.

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