There was a rather large, uncertain part of Ira that contemplated why he had decided to come back to this infernal territory as his large (too large for his growing slightly disproportionately awkward body) paws carried him to the lake he knew as Hell. This was just a dramatization made by the insolent Princeling in question simply because he had a severe hatred of the feathered fiends that frequented the lake otherwise known as to those whom were normal: ducks. To Ira, they would forever be the ‘feathered fiends’ with no particular rhyme or reason for his inherent dislike of them. He thought they were obnoxious, boisterous and filthy creatures and no matter what anyone tried to tell him in opposition he stubbornly refused to listen, which to anyone who knew Ira would not have found that all that surprising. He refused to listen to mostly everything anyone told him anyway. To listen might be to admit that he was wrong and there was a strong sense of narcissism and pride that could not allow him to do such a thing.
A pause was given in his approach to the muddy and green bank of the lake, as his icy colored eyes scoured the territory general surprised while further contented that there were only a few ducks at the lake so far. Maybe it was too early for them, he reasoned, squinting up at the orange half present sun for it was still rising into the skyline. Whatever the case, Ira’s stiff posture eased some, though he didn’t dare let his guard entirely fall. There was no telling when a whole flock of the demon birds might gang up and decide to come to the lake. For now, however, Ira did not worry too much about it, instead peaceably settling upon his haunches to watch the sunrise, letting his thoughts wander on the rippling water mirroring the picture that had painted itself before him.