Swiftcurrent Creek Don Quixote

his sanguine sense was weak today. if there was a wounding somewhere, it lingered in the air as a lowly suspicion rather than a direct calling. but, it was something - and the avian was hungry.

he swept the river and with several hefty beats of his wings, managed a sloppy landing among some trees. from there the hesitant trail of blood in the air - that stale copper note that attracted him like a lush to cheap wine - drew his attention further.

a gray blob of a terrestrial roamed the riverside. qapnuk clucked deep in his throat, his beak clicking, tsk tsk tsk tsk.