Willfur
The crashing of the water is deafening. Willfur would have thought, from experience with other rivers in other places, that the current would be tame and babbling at this time of year, most of the winter melt-off having already collected and moved downstream at the start of spring. Conflictingly, the Rapax is roaring even now, with summer close on the horizon and the sun lingering longer in the sky each day.
He steps as close to the edge of the water as he dares, spray washing across his legs and chest even from a cautious meter away. Peering down into the surging froth, he can see jagged outcroppings of stone in the rivers bed and pushing up along its banks, forcing every ounce of liquid to slosh and slam its way through as it hurries downstream, never quieting or losing momentum.
"Wow!" One long, mule ear pivots backward, respectful and a little apprehensive of the waters obvious strength. "They should call you Rapax Rapids, not Rapax River. I think even I'd be washed away in that current." He steps back, squinting to follow the waters winding track as it snakes farther south. "But how am I meant to cross you?"
As far as he can tell there's no bridge, no ford, not even a worn trail along the bank that might indicate a safe passage farther up or down the rivers edge. All he can see is stone and mist, thundering swells of water and the very real possibility of death. slow death.
No thank you.
