Whitefish River It's a beautiful and a burning thing

Water lapped at his feet with a peculiar force, and as the ashen male waded deeper into the river, he could feel the persistent tug of the rushing liquid, pressing against his chest and legs. It threatened to carry him away, but he held his ground tightly, eyes scanning the moving stream for signs of fish. He could feel the aquatic prey animals brush against his long limbs, and with frustration, Kierkegaard bobbed his head beneath the surface in hopes that he could lock his jaws around one of them. Lifting his crown back up, he shook the water from his eyes and ears and scowled heavily into the river, now fully soaked. Wading out of the deeper part of the river, the ashen male made his way along the shore at a slow pace. His pelt dripped a trail as he trekked forward, sharp eyes hoping to find a place where he could pause and catch himself a meal. When his golden gaze fell on a strange abnormality in the shoreline, he trotted towards it and noted that it seemed to stretch further into the river than anywhere else. Kierkegaard stepped into the water and pushed himself forward until he could peer into the deeper liquid. He watched carefully for several minutes, hoping to see the salmon that he knew to be native to the waters before growing tired and impatient. One step more, and then another, and before he knew it, Kierkegaard had lost his footing on land and was paddling in attempts to regain his ground. The river’s current was too strong, though, and it tossed him down stream. When his legs were finally able to strike against the gravel and he could hold himself still, the ashen male glanced up to see that he had lost a good distance. A sound forced his lengthy ears to perk on his head, and he darted his gaze in the direction of a female who was tiptoeing along the edge of the water. Kierkegaard regarded her for several long seconds, wondering if she too had noticed him.