He felt as though he were a slugabed -- worthless, wasting resources. Perhaps, he had escaped death narrowly that day, and now the Reaper was holding him here for payback. Bloody bastard.
Rolling from his uninjured side to his stomach, Maksim huffed a low whine, eyes darting around the den. He had been holed up within the dark space since his unexpectedly grim encounter with a starving bobcat, with far too much fight for such little weight. Boredom took to settling fast into the Baranski's bones, and, by the second night, he was already pawing away at the dirt beneath him, nosing it as he relished the scent of fresh earth ... but even that was starting to grow stale. He missed his patrol, missed the wind ruffling his coat, missed the sun on his body. Just how long had he been cooped up in here? It felt like an eternity.
Lachesis had left for a moment, to seek flora for the ache in Maksim's muscles. He was thankful for his healer's constant care, beyond proud that he could call the greatest medic in Relic Lore his. Hoisting himself to his paws, he hobbled free from the hole in the ground -- no doubt against the warnings the deer-legged medic had given numerous times. Testing his injured leg, tapping the ground with his paw, the tawny giant snorted. It still had a sharp twang of pain race up the tendons, but the wounds had scabbed over nicely.
It would not hurt to simply stretch his limbs now, would it?
Lifting his heavy head to the skies, he inhaled the cold air. Yes, that certainly tickled the back of his throat and brought moisture to his significantly brightened eyes. He filled his lungs with frozen wind and rumbled a low, soft chuckle. It was good to be alive, he realised, and that thought alone brought a smile to his features. Damn the Reaper; he would follow the spirit when hell itself froze over.