Otter Creek cripples, bastards, and broken things

A misty and late afternoon was caroused with the noise of a stampede, as a deer herd scattered from the reckless charging of a hunger-pained wolf. Inexperience and impatience made him a poor hunter, and flinging himself after anything he thought was near enough to run down was only one of his many mistakes as an adult meant to care for himself. He kept fairly good pace with the herd, though he was realizing in his tiring pursuit that he wouldn't have the strength to bring any of these fit deer down by himself. Any would-be young or injured herbivores had already broken away from him, which left him desperately chasing a group of the herd that had kept together. His loss officially came when they reached Otter Creek.

The ungulates bounded through with barely any slack in  their pace, but Rickon's speed was entirely bogged down trying to get through the water. By the time he had reached the opposing bank, the deer were at a distance too great to make up. Rickon slowed, dripping and panting as he watched them go; and as an unhelpful reminder, his stomach growled in lament.

@Crescent