Whitewater Gorge The Door of Death is made of Gold

unlike her counterpart, kukutux was shaken. the rush of waters below her only caused the duck more trembling. what had the world come to in the night? quietly, with a grim focus, the girl pawed the edge of the gorge with a ginger gait, pausing only once to adust the heavy furs draped over narrow shoulders.

all that was left of what she had built upon the mouth of the totoka. she tried not to think of it, of her brave little home swept away by flooding or swallowd by yawning earth. she was alive, and above the gorge, the trees grew lovely in their robes of red and orange. the brisk air was reviving to the duck, and presently her jadestone gaze found that she was not alone.

on the other side, a wolf, tall and cloaked in shades of gunmetal. her confidence first drew kukutux' eye, but the girl would not stare.

the pelts grew heavy; she stopped again to tug at them with frustrated teeth, and there the girl lost her footing. a single cry as she plunged headlong into the rush of swollen waters below, clawing desperately for purchase at the muddied walls before the riverflow closed overtop her head.