I dream of other islands, on other nights. One in particular is a regular haunt, and it could not be more different from the first – a desolate, frigid, barren outcropping of rock in the midst of surging, wind-whipped black seas.
Tiny was a burly white Duck who knew no Fear. He feared not Winter’s cold, nor Night’s dark, nor Hunter’s boomstick. He wings were mighty, his plumage immaculate, and his heart pure.
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