Ankyra Sound der trompeter von säckingen

mahler was not ashamed to admit, at least to himself, that he did not enjoy the taste of the cold saltwater. yet he supposed that was of incidental nature — there were other things about the great water that the musiker allowed himself to revel in. the roar of the ocean, to which he had grown accustomed, was far fiercer, far more symphonic when he found himself within its embrace. the crystalline lap of water round his ears, the percussive swathes of rain from offshore storms.
meeresmusik, mahler called it, lodging it into the thudding of his own heartbeat. today, he climbed from the water and set strong forelegs akimbo against the sand, a powerful shake of his dappled pelt flashing seawater every whichway. in his gleaming teeth, the long gasping body of a whiskered otter.
mahler felt it thrash within his jaws, grunting as its heavy tail swung against his cheek — he cast it down and set upon its weakened figure with a quick snapping, breaking the hapless neck. sinking to his haunches alongside the now-still carcass, the man's tongue lolled with some exhaustion — the hunt for the quicksilver animal had not been one of ease.