Otatso Wetlands wet feet

stærk slows as the wetlands dissolve into firm, open land, the clinging muck giving way to frostbitten earth. his breath curls in the air; his golden eye sweeps the horizon. and then he sees it—a dark silhouette in the distance, moving closer, closer, until it halts.

his trot quickens, cutting a diagonal path toward the figure. something about the way it moves... his gut tightens, the steady rhythm of his pace faltering as realization takes root.

he stops abruptly, his foreleg frozen mid-step, tail lifting high in instinctive assertion as if to brace against the whirlwind rising within him. his single eye narrows, disbelief clouding his thoughts.

gjalla?

the name leaves him before he can stop it. his voice cracks, just slightly—a fracture in the steel of his composure.