Grebe lifted his head at the sound of Kenobi’s voice. “Yes? What it it?” He sighed, the day had been eventful, and he was exhausted. At least the hawk left he thought.
Grebe made sure the Marsh was safe, it was his job, and he did it well. Some rabbits complained about the curfews, but they barely ever lost a rabbit to a predator. His heart had dropped when he heard the hawk‘s cries, they had done so well to keep the predators at bay; but the hawk left. Although that Thicket buck was caught.. he wilted a little, even though there was nothing that could’ve been done.
His thoughts brought him to her, if not briefly, Caltha, she was as bright as the flowers she was named after, her ivory fur glowing against the fenland… He stiffened, unable to block out the memory, her fur stained with mud, as rivulets of blood ran down her mutilated hind leg. The coyote sneering, her flesh hanging from its jaws.
You couldn’t’ve done anything, Grebe.
Kenobi’s head poked through the vines into his burrow, startling him.
(Because I can’t not give my characters traumatic backstories
)
