Otatso Wetlands tatarmoon

There was a squawk and a brief struggle. Gavrel emerged from the sedge, his heels slick with mud and a goose hanging from his jaws. Its neck was curved like the handle of an umbrella, and was just as glossy.

He rarely ever got this lucky, and his body was stiff with excitement.

Maybe he would save a feather for Redd. The concept of courting to him was apocryphal, just so much prehistoric scrawling on a cave wall. All he knew was that he liked to see her smile, and that her usual guardedness was not a deterrent to him, but rather the topsoil layer of a history he wanted to know more of.

He stopped to examine the goose once more, and ran a claw through the barred plumage of its chest. The pattern was reminiscent of sedimentary strata, like the side of the Rise banded by dusky light.