Whitebark Stream the door slammed loud and rose up a cloud of dust on us

The insects had fled, or died from feeding to burst, but left behind what could easily be the apocalypse. 

Sitiyok left the barren glacial woodland behind in search of food, knowing a full belly would get him through what could easily be the most difficult year of his life. It took him the better part of two days to reach the lowlands from the coast. Everywhere he passed was skeletal and haunted by the cloud of voracious insects that had taken, and taken, and taken until there was nary a scrap left behind. But what frightened him most was the silence. Not a bird sang, nor an elk bugled. He caught glimpses of movement in the trees, but nothing was sedintary. Everything was moving, shifting, changing.

When he finally came to a stop beside Whitebark Stream, he was starving. Quite a few locusts littered the bank here, too. They were everywhere. His skin crawled with the sight of them, constantly reminded of the damage they'd wrought on the Teekon Wilds. It stung like a fresh wound.

His gaze shifted to the cool and clear waters. A drink would slake his thirst, and perhaps numb his hunger, so he waded ankle deep into the stream and dipped his muzzle to the surface. He lapped at it, watching the ripples of the moving water, until a flash of silver drew his attention. His ears twisted and peaked, brows lifting, and water dripping from his chin. Another flash of movement. Fish.

The swarthy male lunged, seeking the silver flash, but his teeth clipped together with a crack and the prey vanished. His momentum carried him into the deeper water where his feet lost purchase and he crashed into the water with a great big splash.