Quote:
Originally Posted by .:Blue Wishes:.
Selene was still trying to cope with everything that had happened to her. She wasn’t sure if she knew how to walk anymore. All she ever did was run. Run. Stop. Run. She had to do that, she was just managing to grasp it. She shifted the one knife she had in her grasp. She had thought it would be a good weapon, she had seen how sharp it was. She slowed down, not hearing anyone, her breaths coming out like desperate pants, doing a weird mix of a walk and a jog.
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A shifting in the nearby shrubbery is audible enough, the responsible occupant mutedly cursing himself out. Rowan, collecting himself and endeavoring to recall his training for these sorts of things, fathoms the pacing of his frightened hearts near petrified expression upon his own young features. With a haughty sough of indignation towards himself, the anxious searcher dwells upon the decisions of his next action. His ears flick downwards in a terrified manner, yet the juvenile satyr is well aware that he can't merely hover here until the girl passes. That's not his job. He needs to save her; accompany her to sanctuary, to Camp Half-Blood. No matter how much his bounding heart might protest. With lithe hooves clicking against the dirt beneath him, Rowan endeavors to abscond his jade surroundings, merely peeking out towards the child. However, just as he catches a timid glimpse of the girl, (Selene, as he'd been informed,) he fathoms himself falling, his gaunt and awkward hooves having caught themselves against some brambles and tripped. A wince contorts the satyr's sienna expression into one of groaning anguish, of a startling abrupt surprise. His flaxen gaze, morose and terrified, flickers up towards the half-blood. "Uh," he utters, an anxious chortle infecting his throat; "Hey, there."