effondré | visitor

Georges swears, he promises, intègre! that he doesn’t get lost too easily, but Mon Dieu is he lost now. He crossed a border somewhere, maybe twice or more by now, but no matter how hard he tried to find his way back to the meadow he just ended up even more turned around. Granted, it was only a day’s travel, but he knew he had gone too far when he reached l’océan. It touched at his fawn paws softly, as if in consolation. If only he had a map, or more than three days knowledge of this new land — he wouldn’t have gotten himself into this mess. Truly, he didn’t know where he was.

Nonetheless, the ocean was a comfort. He didn’t realize that he missed the smell of salt, the feeling of white sands under his paw pads, so he found himself melting into the embrace of the warm, windy seafront. An old friend greeted him in the water, comforting his startled heart. Georges knew he could defend himself if needed; the ocean knew it too.

Feeling somewhat invigorated by a wave which had sent a few drops up to his face, Georges gathered himself up and set upon exploring this new place, and hopefully finding his way home. He padded upon the stand strongly, searching along each horizon for any sense of familiarity as he followed the waterline. He expected, initially, that the tall sidelining of stone would fade and lighten; it did, almost, but shadows grew the more he walked. Curious, Georges directed his gaze up, up, up to what should have been the sky, but what was instead—

“Une île?!” he gasped, stumbling back a bit before stumbling more. Startled, his nimble paws became clunky and useless as he slipped over the sand, sent careening down into a pothole at least seven feet deep. There was a small cavern on the beach which he had initially the foresight to avoid, but was now laying uselessly at the bottom of, damp and chest heaving for air.

After a few moments, feeling came back to his numb body, so Georges lifted to his paws with a groan. The cavern was small, its entrance trickling with sand, graying sky above visible from its gaping mouth. Oh, just his luck — lost and trapped. “Hello? Hello!” he called tentatively at first, voice raising as some small alarm grabbed him by the heart through his sore ribs. Dieu reste mon âme.

A disquiet settled underneath his skin, borne of finespun aristocracy, though fear served as another great equalizer. Several long, steep minutes passed where Georges became more and more agitated, a lump of cotton forming somewhere in his throat just from the stress of it. Too high to jump and too steep to climb, he would surely perish without assistance.

A great sigh of relief unraveled the anxiety coiled within him when a timid voice reached his velvety ears. A child, it seemed, but he would not complain to a child he may soon owe his life to. Un autre joueur, he thought to himself, squinting up at Lucas from here he stood back to the sun. “I am okay!” Georges called back, accent heavy on his tongue and thoroughly rattled from the fall; but alive.

The vines crept from the mouth of the cavern, twisting down upon him like sneaking fingers searching in the dark. He peered toward them, a bit miffed, but determined to get himself out of the hole. He approached eagerly, glancing up and down the vines to assess, then grabbing hold with his claws and twisting his limbs around for a better hold. This way he could get himself up about a foot, but there was only so much he could do with paws. They kept calling down at him, but he couldn’t quite make out what was being said.

“Pardon, mes ami! Perhaps you could... uhm, pull me up?” the domestic shouted up at the duo, honeyed eyes crinkling in concern. His body dared not betray him despite his quickly progressing fatigue; he would hold on, fight tooth and claw if he had to. Georges didn’t look forward to dying in a hole.