What was this? Some sort of vine? The plant life wrapped around the buck's neck seemed to be fashioned somehow; woven or wrapped. Hooves could not so this, and neither could horns.
He threw his head and saw a glimpse of grey sky before pulled back to the ground, hooves thudding hard against dry dust. What had happened to the marsh? There were others with him as well, tied down with vine that seemed to disappear straight into the ground. The doe beside this buck looked to him, eyes wide and sad as loud footsteps thundered toward them, their origin obscured in a rolling wall of flying dirt.
A step toward the doe showed that he could reach her neck his his head outstretched. The vine could be chewed-through, given time, but for now their captors were returning. When they left again, the revolution would begin, and it would be his doing.
