Heron Lake Plateau I spat on you when you called me a dog

For several weeks, the yearling had travelled alone. She’d ventured from one territory to the next, avoiding contact with others when she was able to do so. At one point, she’d found herself back at the coast, where she wandered until a river interrupted her path and sent her following along its bank, instead; she could have crossed it with ease, had she the desire to do so, but there was no point in drenching herself when there was another way. Yet, she could avoid unsavoury situations only for so long, as she was soon trekking through wetlands. Each time she went to move forward she lifted her limbs up high, almost as if she believed that would somehow keep them from getting too damp.

It didn’t work, of course—and nothing would have worked to keep her dry in the moments that followed.

It was all a blur. One moment she was up and moving, the next it felt as if a rock had hit her, and she was suddenly sprawled out on the ground, reeds flattened by the weight of her body. She blinked several times, stunned beyond belief. The sound of honking didn’t even register as her gaze fell on the mass that’d hit her, the form easily recognisable and drawing from her a growl, which ended in a haughty huff. “What the hell are you doing?!” she spat, just as lovely as ever. “You didn’t lose both eyes, you should be able to see where you’re going!” Wow, had she missed yelling at him.