Otatso Wetlands catch that bird! it's been stealing my hair to make a nest!

Only his ears could be seen twitching among the tall blades of marsh grass as they swayed and bent in the breeze; and only then if you were looking at just the right angle. He had slipped into the wetland and lowered himself onto a dry hillock that mallards had nested on earlier in the season. Their feathers and scat were still present on the nest-knoll. The birds themselves dabbled in the quiet corners of the warm, still waters, but it was not they that he was interested in.

Frogs filled his belly. But it was not the amphibians that he was after either. He had his fill of them. No, he was after the buzzing dragonflies that darted overhead in pursuit of mosquitoes and blackflies. This was sport. Euron was a masterful ambusher, preferring to strike at unsuspecting prey when it came too near to him, rather than chase the prey down himself. He had been born with innate stealth that he had practiced and trained to near perfection; his peculiar way of hunting had come as a natural extension of that.

One dragonfly swooped in too low. Catlike, Euron leapt up and plucked the insect from the air. Its large wings beat and hummed frantically from the sides of his narrow snout as his teeth crushed and crunched the bug. He never swallowed. Instead, pieces and bits of were spat out in front of him. Then he settled in again, repeating the same actions every few minutes.