In the Forests of New France

The sound is all too real to your still terrorized mind, and you struggle upright, pushing the lighter branches of the tree you are sheltering under up to clear your head. Still, the needles tangle in your hair, and you wince at the sudden pull. Scrambling out from underneath, you jump to your feet, brushing the dirt from your knees and palms.

Nothing. The forest is silent, except for the common sounds of insects and the like that you fully expected to hear. No baying of hounds, no howling of wolves. Not even the ominous creaking of branches tread upon too roughly. The air is cooler now, and what you can see of the between the branches of the trees is clear and spattered with stars.

With that thought, it occurs to you that perhaps you might navigate your way home that way. You have no idea where you are, of course, but you had apparently entered the clearing from the southeast, and so your hope is that perhaps that is the direction in which home lies. If you can find the river, that itself should guide you home eventually, or at least to civilization somewhere.

You are still tired, though, if too nervous to sleep soundly. Perhaps it would be best to wait until morning, but in that case you would lose the benefit of the stars.