Duck Lake pluja

"l-like w-warmed over t-trash," the mayfair moaned. he'd had another episode, another falling into himself wherein he could not talk to his companions. instead lestan had babbled about violent deer and golden wings, a bird of fire and a cat which struck with french claws.
at her suggestion, he stood miserably and then waded into the lake, settling only when it lapped the middle of his back.
it was only then that he smelled himself; ears planed and he sank slowly beneath the surface, leaving an oily ring of traveldirt rippling gently on the clear water.