Otatso Wetlands in my rotten right hand

lilia was often traveling; it seemed he could find her scent strongly in the taiga. she was a strong hunter, his mate, a powerful warrior. and ancelin found that he still did not think himself worthy of her choice.
once he had though the way was blood. but as the rise settled, and as he too settled into his role at her side, ancelin found he wanted another way.
wetland terraces studded with bright ivory birds suddenly gave way through the foliage, and he realized he had gone farther from redtail than he intended.
shaking out his variegated ruff, ancelin continued, stalking with the easy grace bestowed by his father, the observant caution of his mother; the cunning flicker of bearclaw in his eyes. avicus' eyes.
he wore the bearclaw in a knot over his chest, tangled securely in a tight matting that only teeth could pull free. an emblem. a symbol.
cordgrass and tall reeds parted for his muscular shoulders as he waded into the oozing shallows, comforted by the pull of cool mud at his paws, the immediate soothe of the day's heart. he cut through the surface like a caiman, lowering himself into the inviting depths.