Poirot wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep for, or even what time it was.
The sky overhead was an almost oppressive shade of the deepest, darkest blue he could ever remember seeing in his life, any light that the stars or moon could have offered obscured by the heavy clouds above that spewed a soaking rain on the forest around him.
His senses were all at once filled with the rain; the pitter-patter of the droplets hitting the leaves, dripping down to the ground, falling into nearby puddles, the damp smell that wafted through the air and circled around him like a cold blanket.
He shifted in the soft dirt where he lie beneath the elephant ear leaves, a sharp pain in his back right leg suddenly pulling him back to the reality of the situation he was in.
He had been exploring the woods as he often did, searching for any interesting leaves or rocks or other knicknacks to take home with him, when he had decided to climb a rocky outcrop for a better view. Much to his misfortune, this plan had ended badly when a wet stone had come loose, leading to him losing his footing and plummeting back to the ground below, twisting his leg in the process.
He had thought a nap might dull the pain enough for him to walk home, but it seemed it hadn't.
Now he was alone in the dark with no light to guide him AND an injured leg.
Poirot was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly leapt out of his own skin when he suddenly heard a distant, but audible crack somewhere.
The forest had been quiet this entire time, the rain drowning out anything that might have otherwise made it to him. Maybe it was just a tree branch breaking?
He strained his ears to listen, hearing nothing further.
Perhaps it was just the forest settling, he tried to reason. Nothing could possibly want to be out in this weather.
But then he heard it.
A slow trudge, accompanied by the wet shuffle of last years' fallen leaves, punctuated by an occasional sharp exhale, almost like an irritable snort.
What could it be? Was it dangerous? Why hadn't he heard it before?
A million questions raced through his mind all at once, and mere seconds felt like a painfully slow lifetime.
The footsteps were heavy, and Poirot could feel the faint vibrations each step traveling through the ground, getting stronger as it approached.
He held his breath, pressing himself as close to the ground as he could in the hopes of not being seen, as a shape began to take form between the dark silhouettes of the trees.
It almost looked like a cat... cat-like head, long, draping fur clinging to it's wet body, giving it a most hagard appearance... but huge and hunched forward, walking on two muscular back legs, eyes casting a warm glow ahead of it as it searched the path ahead.
He unintentionally gasped at the sight of it.
The creature's head snapped to look in his direction, eyes lighting up the foliage all around him like searchlights, mercifully missing his hiding place, but just barely. It stared, tilting it's head curiously.
[IDid it know? Could it smell him?[/i]
Much to his relief, after looking in his direction for what felt like forever, it turned to face the path again, tromping off into the dark oblivion of the woods, the footsteps only making it so far before suddenly fading from existence.
Was it gone? Was it finally... safe?
Poirot didn't move, save for his own unintentional shivering, terrified that any sound might bring it back.
He would have to wait till morning to hobble home... but could he wait that long?
What if it came back?
Mind full of worrying possibilities, he hunkered down for the night, ears trained on sound of the rain, listening for anything unusual.