Whitewater Gorge I'm doing my best

He had been bidden to scout ahead, and though he did so, he was a miserable slave to his whims. His sharp yellow eyes spotted the yearling along the edge of the gorge and he stared as a corpse might: unblinking and unmoving. Spittle collected about his black lips and formed a long string of saliva that dangled from one side of his jaw. He paid no heed to the wind, nor to how his bony form stood out against a brushless background.