Whitefish River Impede

Never did he stray far from his home, uncertain how far was too far and not too keen on the idea of testing boundaries; he knew he should reach further, seek out those that may be nearest to them, but he could not yet bring himself to do so. Rather, he stuck to those few lands that were hardly any lengths away when he wished to go out and stretch his legs, the river slowly turning into a favourite. But today the river was alive, less docile than it usually appeared to be—thundering steps echoed through the flatland, the earth shaking underfoot. He thought it to be another quake at first, a straggler disrupting them months after the others ceased, but his eyes soon disproved his suspicions.

A herd; large, hoofed beasts—larger even than the deer he was accustomed to, the marks they drove into the ground underfoot too great to match the ones he recalled seeing before. He thought to call the pack, to seize this opportunity—but they were driven by fear, and a fearful beast was dangerous; a feeling, blooming from the depths of his very soul, quelled his desires and shot a dose of reason through his veins.

He would not risk the lives of those he felt so fondly of for a single meal.

Aningan hunkered down where he stood, far enough from the stampede so as to avoid being trampled but near enough to watch them go. Focus set on the elk, he remained oblivious to the creator of their fear and the slaughtered calf that remained shielded by distance.