Emberwood my smile's an open wound.

His initial thrust into the reeds accomplished him little. Whittier swung his head back and forth, nose working frantically to tell him all it could of what he had to work with. Despite the cacophony that sounded still in the background, the boy did not immediately find any of the little trumpeters. But he was not so easily deterred. Not right now anyway.

Whittier paced along the shoreline, his muzzle glued to the ground. He wandered a few yards before he finally froze in place as his eyes landed upon his prey. The frog lay as though immobile upon the edge of the lake, concealed against the murk of his muddy backdrop. Whit crouched low, but soon enough realized he was hunting frogs and thus subtlety was fairly inconsequential. He crouched low with his bum wriggling above him, hefty belly brushing the ground below him. It was mostly done for fun at this point, and also to give him reason to think he might in some way be earning this meal. Which he was not.

But in either case, Whit pounced forward and snapped his jaws around the frog as it shuffled slightly to the side in a poor attempt at escape. As easy as it had been, the yearling still felt triumphant as he crushed its bones between his teeth and snuffed out its life.