Swiftcurrent Creek Bonefish

Wet slushed beneath the seafarer’s paws as he crossed the border into the creek.

Swordfish was worn tired, irritable. He had avoided the wetfall of snow for as long as he could. The last mile back to the pack had soaked him down to his bones. The thought of curling up in his den and seeking peace was persuasive and lured him forward.

A curious scent on the border had given him pause. Blue eyes shifted toward disturbed earth. He sniffed at it, pulling back with the sharpness of the scent. It smelled like prey animal, but rank. Whatever it had been had rolled in the snow and dirt until it had crafted a dent. Smaller hoof tracks led toward the mountain range in the west.

Tired, Swordfish began a slow patrol to make sure the smelly beast hadn’t circled back.