Otter Creek This Was No Accident, This Was a Therapeutic Chain of Events

The white wolf from before had left, and with him, most of Daighre’s dignity. Now, he stalked the foothills, rivers, and forests. Restless. Pacing. Angry. Today was no different, the sound of rushing water loud in his ears, the moisture of the river wet inside his nostrils and lungs.
 
A tree—several—had fallen onto the rushing waters. To Daighre it was a bridge, an easy way to pass over a river that had yet to freeze in the approaching winter.
 
He stepped onto the log from off the water leaden banks.
 
It creaked and shifted under his weight, protested his very presence.
 
He paid it no mind, the balance and footwork that came with crossing over rivers using fallen trees second nature.
 
The wood beneath his paws creaked.
 
And groaned.
 
Then bent.
 
And eventually, it splintered.
 
He fell in.