The fluttering of wings woke him to find sunlight dappled across the ground. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep here but the lull of the night was like siren song to tired ears, and he couldn’t quite shake the grogginess that greeted him. The grove had seemed a perfect place to stop and rest, tucked away in what had been shadows from moonlight at the time, but was now exposed to the glare of a late morning sun.
A yawn split his maw in two so strongly that he could not quiet his voice though he had nothing to fear—it was still quiet here, nestled deep in the arms of the woodland that he had forgotten all about what it was like to have stirred in a bed of tall grasses rolling like breakwater waves. The novelty of the wilderness hadn’t wore off and the prodigious mountains, now looming over him, were no longer so distant to be explored.
Hezekiah, the Scarecrow of the Dreadwood, finally rose and let his long limbs stretch out ahead of him. It was almost feline-like the way that he arched his back, his tail coiling every bit as much as his toes dug into the soft, supple earth. He shook out his coat next as another yawn overtook him, this time silent in its utterance.
And then he was off—to find something to drink, that was.