Cast me down where the devil don’t go

Everything had been going so well, and now, this. Urgh, it made the Archer-Lyall sick to her stomach, a tightness in her chest and the feeling of a thousands tiny bug bites underneath her fur. She might think herself infested, except she had already checked and there were no fleas to be found. She had even gone so far to find what she thought looked like chamomile and rolled in it to no avail. Her lips were pulled tight in a grimace as she dragged her flanks along the trunk of the nearest willow, oblivious to the fact that this was just her heat cycle, and while it was an itch that could be scratched, if she so wished, it wouldn’t be as straight forward as dragging along a suitably rough surface (or would it? -badum tish-).

She continued to curse beneath her breath, suddenly hot among the tingling, a growl growing in her chest along with the building... whatever this was. It was all utter deershit, and she was not impressed.