The Leaf Drift

I plunged my heavy front foot into a mound between two oak roots, expecting solid earth. Instead, the ground collapsed beneath my scutes with a crisp, echoing crunch. That caught my attention. I took another deliberate step, sinking belly-deep into a drift of dry, copper-colored oak leaves. They crackled loudly against my flank spikes, shifting with every slow step. Planted firmly in the center of the soft nest, I swung my tail club low and wide. A dry rustle kicked a cloud of papery leaves into the warm afternoon air. They rained back down across my armor with tiny, satisfying taps. I shuffled forward to crunch through the rest.