Tumbling, churning, white water and displaced silt. A paw found the bottom of the estuary and he pushed up, colliding with something on his ascent, it catching on his antlers and staining the water red. A violent thrashing and he was displaced again, trying to find his way to the surface, white dots dancing in the corner of his vision.
Sweet relief as his head breaks the surface, greedily gulping down air, paddling to gain a footing in the silt and join his brother dragging the limp, gored beast up onto the sand. Waste not want not, or something like that. They had crafters who would make use of what was left.
