Otatso Wetlands Without the night.

The wind whipped at Etienne like the sea in her anger. It raked it's icy fingers through his coarser fur and squeezed trails of whisper cold throughout. But he pressed forward. Head slung slow. Paw step after paw step. A grit of fang. It hurt this icy wind. It hurt.

His Feathers hung tightly thank the heavens but they whipped against his cheek. His pearl like a icy stone around his throat. The rawhide sinew and fur that held it there squeezing. This was one for the ages.

Finally, Etienne could have weeped for joy when the treeline grew closer. And in it's shadowy boughs a body he knew better than his own. Even if he'd never traced it or touched it. He knew it. Knew it.

His name curled against the sharper shriek of the wind. It carried the sea in it's vowels. His mother's love in it's very letters and tone. And he made it. Made it.

He found the mountain born with golden gaze and woth a whimper and a laugh spoke. I t'ink I'll take de sea in 'er anger over dis storm.