For an instant, Aven lay gaping in dumbstruck horror. For a moment, the urge to flee for help seized his senses. Then, in tandem force, visions of stern recriminations, long-winded lectures, and tedious hours locked away in home raced through his mind.

The young fox shook his head vigorously, nearly reprimanding himself for his own selfish concerns. He almost started running for the city, when another vision flickered through his thoughts - the grim and grisly fate which might await his friend if he proved too slow in fetching aid.

Aven sealed his mouth, and clenched his stick. No. He had no time to fetch an adult. He would have to fix this alone.

Swiftly, he darted up the hill, in time to see the obsidian Quackatrice vanish into a distant grove of ancient oaks. With the general area still relatively clear, Aven set out at a dead run, plowing through the grass until the oaken grove towered nearby.

Now, with no clear image of what lay within, the fox slowed, dropping down into the veiling undergrowth. Adrenaline and uncertainty raced through his veins, and he suddenly felt acutely aware of his heart and lungs thrumming against his chest. Despite his building anxiety, he forced himself to hold for a moment, eyes closed as he concentrated on catching and controlling his breathing. He knew a direct brawl with his quarry would merely end badly. Only through stealth and precision could he prevail this day.

Finally, he regained his composure. His grip tightened upon his stick, his eyes flicked open, and he crept forth once more, into the masking shadows of the grove ahead.

Ferns and shrubbery clustered about the bases of the grand, ancient trees, affording precious cover as Aven delved onwards. A few lingering sunbeams encroached betwixt gaps in the timbers and leaves, casting scattered illumination upon the foliage within. Aven kept his eyes sharp, aware that the black-tinted Quackatrice could easily obscure itself within any of the nearby plant life.

Aven did not spot the Quackatrice - not at first - until his ears caught a muffled whimper. He glanced over. There! The back of the creature’s head was just barely visible, tucked away amidst a nearby cluster of bushes. Aven swallowed. The head never moved, never swiveled. It seemingly had not noticed him yet.

He quietly went flat against the ground, creeping towards the bushes with the utmost caution he could muster. As he drew closer, he could make out a twisted assemblage of twigs and leaves, tucked away within the center of the cluster. A nest! The Quackatrice’s squatting form reclined within, its feathers nearly spilling out over the rim.

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Aven’s ears perked in the evening breeze. He could hear the young hare’s breathing, interspersed with faint whimpers, somewhere beneath the feathered mass. Was the Quackatrice… sitting on her?

He wiggled closer, scarcely daring to breathe, until he was nearly alongside the nest. The Quackatrice remained unmoving, eyes closed, wings folded. Aven looked up.

Towering. Fierce. Terrible. Quacking made material.

The fox reached up with his stick and poked it right in its feathery butt.

With a most undignified “SQUAWK!” the Quackatrice burst from its nest, feathers and wings poofing out violently at the sudden transgression. Rearing about, it turned upon the tenacious fox, indignation raging in its eyes.

“No!” The defiant recrimination burst forth unbidden, a sudden surge of energy racing through the fox as he stabbed out with the branch, striking directly into the much larger beak. “NO!”

The gaping beak nearly seized upon Aven's paws, before the tip of his stick jammed into the back of the Quackatrice's gullet and snapped clean off.

Anger turned to confusion, and quickly to panic - the creature’s eyes going wide as it gagged against the offending twig. It ran in a mad circle, head bobbing furiously up and down, before suddenly turning and bolting for the nearby river.

Aven stood trembling slightly with exhilaration, watching the creature flee for a moment before sticking his head over the rim of the nest. Nenna, still curled up in its center, pulled her paws from her head and squinted out timidly.

“Is… is she gone?”

“Yeah, for now. You alright?”

Nenna sat partially upright, still visibly scared but otherwise evidently uninjured. “Mhm. I think so.” She took stock of her surroundings - a jumbled cradle of feathers and twigs, littered with the scattered fragments of long-fractured shells.

“We’re not gonna get an egg out of this.”

“Yeah. At least you’re okay, though.” Aven pulled himself over the rim of the nest and helped Nenna onto her knees, offering a steadying paw as she composed herself. “We’re lucky she didn’t eat you.”

“I dunno. I don’t think she wanted to hurt me.” The hare rubbed her eyes, looking down again over the disorderly nest, littered as it was with spent eggshells. “Maybe she just missed being a mommy.”

“C’mon. We should go, before she comes back.”

“Yeah.”

Aven knelt briefly to help his cohort gather the scattered contents of her apron pockets. Paws rummaged through straw and leaves, retrieving trinkets and candies in somber silence.

As they rummaged, Nenna’s paw brushed against something smooth and cold. She frowned, and swept aside a thin layer of downy feathers. Her eyes went wide, and she tugged urgently at her friend’s sleeve.

“Hey, Aven...”

The young fox paused and turned in time to see Nenna pull away the last of the obscuring material.

Nestled away amidst the broken shells of bygone hatchlings, a faint, glimmering surface caught the final whispers of the fading sunlight.

A single, perfect, golden egg.