Foxy had mulled over this decision for a few days, roosting on her legs like a perturbed chicken, rising only for food and drink. It had been a while, quite a while since she had answered the Ache and found her way to the swamp, and though she had taken the swamp's curiousities and differences in her stride, she was starting to find the emotions and the vagueness and the dreaminess of the swamp just slightly tiresome.This worried Foxy, because it was clear to any kin that had found their new home, that they could not go back.
Sometimes she could feel her steadfast beliefs shift too, as a daughter of the mountains, into these emotions and vagueness and dreaminess, and she found her stubbornness just slightly tiresome.
She had thought, and thought, and perhaps she would come to a compromise. She would make it back to the route that she'd dragged herself, weary and wanting, into the swamp. If she could just see that path, that path that led back into the snowy mountains, and bled into the heat of the swamp, perhaps...
She remembered the spread of grass and mud very well, at the start of her new life.
Foxy didn't quite know what she had hoped would happen, but she thought it would give her some solace, and help to settle her restless thoughts. It was, she thought, appropriate for a Totoma to find a goal - and attack it, headstrong. And so she moved.
And so she found her, as she turned at the brief sound of slowed steps.
For a while, her tongue struggled between her usual endearments, charmed by the tilt of her head, the fall of her soft locks, as pretty as she'd remembered.
"Hello darling," she acknowledged with a smile, before she caught herself, and moved to touch her nose with her own.
