FINTAIL

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

FATE CAME from the east.

She rode in the waves of a silver fog, drifting over banks and sandstone cliffs before invading the African jungle. It was twilight when it happened; the veil she designed smothered out both color and sky, turning the known world into the unknown. What Fate sought was senselessness to make haste of her dirty deeds; no sight, no sound, no smell — nothing. Without the light, the morning songbirds ceased to whistle their special tune. Without scent, it proved impossible to sense your surroundings of any freedoms and any threats. And, without sound, both predator and prey forced to cower in the night's invisible abyss, putting life out on the edge.

Alas, nothing good came from nothing. She could victimize anything that moved, including myself. I couldn't help looking over my shoulder because of it.

The trees don't move, their trunks tint brown with sable cracks that gnarl the bark. And their arms stand tall, forming the thin cracks of a white ceiling top, a sinister sight indeed. Further ahead, the trickling echo of a lifeless river coiled through the dead forest, skimming away the earth into the forbidden depths of nothingness. Clearly these dark signs are enough to tempt the world into hiding, and, perhaps, spare me the trouble of-

"Race you to Big Lake, slowsnout!"

Oh.

"Not if I get there first!"

I spoke too soon.

Once a tint of light smeared over the clouded forest, two longsnouts fled the confines of their sleeping family, seeking life beyond the mist. Side by side, they raced through the jungle, laughing and whooping at each other, their footsteps rattling the earth and the trees above. And they hadn't a care — without their siblings telling them what to do (and with the added cover of the fog); they were as free as the day they hatched. They had no care about fate, nor was there a reason to fear her. So the world embraced their joy as just, grazing their scales with leaves and water, and whistling in their ears as the wind swept by.

This feeling, like instinct, was untamable. It filled their hearts with joy, rippling under their veins and thin flesh like sugar to the tongue. And it felt good—

"Don't let me beat you!"

"As if!"

—Too good to ignore.

Happiness threw both dinosaurs head-first into the depths of the swamplands, their heavy splashes leaving countless ripples freeing the stilled surface. It would be prudent to say a dinosaur splashing in an open pool is as good as dead; you would be mistaken. Water was their species' element. One element became their sacred power, where they draw in their strengths, where their prey thrives, as do they. And it was clear mere moments after they sank into the deepest end — look upon them as they thrive! Their webbed feet spread outward, as did their claws. The warmth from within traversed to their sails, pushing color to the forefront of the frail bone. As for their snouts, it speared outward, offering less resistance and more surface area to gain lift.

Thorn grunted; his olive eyes were wide with wonder and excitement. He watched Able sneak underwater first; his striped fin pelt split through the disturbed waters, leaving a trail of mud coiling from behind. Thorn then followed, sealing his nares tight as the icy stream flushed over his scales. His tail swished back and forth, each lash propelling his body further (and deeper) into the clouded bog. The haze was irritating to the eyes, but they were used to it. Alas, no lone body of water was ever clean, and had they ever found one, it would've been a marvel.

Both brothers rumbled from the depths, watching little bubbles flutter to the surface world. Their talons coiled and flexed, drawing deep wounds across the floating foliage around them. And, when they got deep enough, the two gave into gravity, and landed claw-first onto the lake bed.