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Frogs were tricky things. Some of them, at least. Some of them were so drab and boring, so perfectly suited to life in the swamp, that a hunter might all but stand on top of them before they gave themselves away with a croak and a leap, splashing into a deeper puddle.

Not this one. This one was bright colors, vibrant blues and hot yellows. It stuck out like a sore ear.

Marshrush wanted it. He'd been creeping up on it for some time now. Slowly. Patiently. Waiting for the perfect moment to rear up on his hind legs and come down hard, a hoof squarely on the hopper's back. One more step forward and he'd be in the perfect position...

Then there was a splash at the far edge of the puddle and ripples across the water due to a dark doe's footfall. The frog reacted as frogs would do and lept for cover.

"What? No! Stop that frog!"

And there she stood, just stood, while the frog bounced right by her. While he launched himself toward them both in the hopes -- no. No, he'd never be fast enough. Once those things got going, especially when they were scared, they were fast. Really fast. Too fast for him to catch.

So he stopped, two or three paces away. He didn't run into her, though he could have, easily, and his irritation was such that he could have excused it. But he didn't. He stopped and snorted and shook his head. "Did you see any other frogs just flinging themselves around, needing to be stopped? Yes, that frog. The one I was hunting."