Otter Creek cripples, bastards, and broken things

It was failure he felt burning in his chest, and not a lack of oxygen. He turned back towards the water, dejected and slightly more hungry than before, only to be completely surprised by a figure standing numbly on the bank he had just crossed. He couldn't remember noticing the young wolf there before, but he was plain as day now, and Rickon wondered how he had ever missed the sterling, disheveled boy. Trying to rein in his heavy breathing, the inky yearling drew a in a deep breath so that he could speak without needing to break for air. "Saw that disaster, huh?" he huffed, moving on stilted limbs back to the Creek. "M'not much of a hunter," he murmured self-deprecatingly, crouching to lap briefly at the water.