Otter Creek regenwasser

he paced, restless. the birth of his children kept him close at hand, but even then he found he needed respite. and so he descended to the wet bank, breathing in the scent of spring and hunting idly along the creekshore, not truly intending to snatch prey unless a situation presented itself.

There was a commotion on the opposite embankment: a great deal of splashing and a cacophony of cries from the namesakes of this creek. A small troupe of otters were scattered in all directions, and the immature yearlings were the only ones not wise enough to aim for their dens at the beset of a slavering wolf.

Goodnight had never seen this kind of aquatic mustelid before, but knew that if they tasted anything like beaver, he didn't want to miss out on the chance to snag one. They were unfortunately quicker than he anticipated, but the creekbed was shallow enough for him keep pace with a pair who, in their erratic fleeing downstream, could not dodge him.

One of the two suddenly pivoted, turning upstream in an effort to shake Goodnight's pursuit. The wolf changed direction on the slushy shore just as sharply, and leaped into the chilly waters with paws outstretched. He felt the creature's thick tail slide from between his claws as he dove to pin it down, and he could only watch, half-stumbling, as the otter launched itself wildly towards the other side of the brook — fleeing blindly towards a dark figure.

and so it came to pass that mahler was not to turn away in boredom after all. the frantic head of an otter breached the waters not far away, and the gargoyle lunged after it at once. such beasts were far swifter than those who stayed upon land; a quicksilver blow was best. 
and so mahler's heavy jaws snapped gleaming in an arc of droplets, followed by a crimson spray that bat playful notes of scarlet into the glint of sun upon surface. another drive of his muzzle and the otter was limp.
elated, mahler fished it from the creek and returned to his place upon the bank, but not before a storm-grey wheatfield of a wolf filled his lavender eyes, and he set down the kill to watch in silence with a brazen curiosity.

The water swelled around Goodnight as he reined himself to a halt, and the ranger stood slack-jawed at the sight of his target in the toothy embrace of another. He wanted to complain — wanted to take back what he thought should be his — but he'd never been a wolf of dangerous impulse, and this particular brunette made him think twice about a squabble.

From his chest-deep stance in the creek, the crestfallen ranger took a slogging step backwards. "Fair catch, mate," he said sportively, giving the sable mountaineer a wide girth as he came ashore and shook out his stormwet coat. "Never tasted that creature before... They any good?"

the fisherwolf yielded mahler the kill, and the doktor's broad stance softened somewhat. the praise in the assuring voice was young, welcome; he shook water from his ruff and stepped back. "come and see." 
his own tones were gruff but affable; signalling a second time that the approach was welcome, mahler settled upon his steel-black haunches and licked the fur of his chest idly, otterblood still painting the proud ridge of his teeth.