Whitewater Gorge The Door of Death is made of Gold

there was a faint hint of maternal scolding in the water-scoured voice. kukutux’ ears fell back against her wet skull, and she nodded. ”i was running away from ... all that is happening,” the duck admitted softly, seeking to clean droplets of the river from the other’s fur, if allowed.

”we are both alive,” she went on, eyes casting about the muddy bank for any sign of mallowflower or mint. nothing. she frowned, glancing back at her companion.

”can you walk? we must get away from the water,” kukutux suggested, for now she feared it, feared it might climb its barriers again and drag them both to their true deaths.