Cricket Creek Bog I lost myself on a cool damp night

LMAO you live and you learn -- but NO RAGRETS!

[table width=68%][tr][td]
Since learning of its existence, Grievous frequented the bog for any opportunity to scavenge. Hunts were much simpler with the swift and boundless Thyri to assist, but at his roots the wolf is an opportunist. It’s out of habit that he hunts for a way to fill his belly without expending too much energy, and it’s out of experience that he returns to the marshes in an effort to find some poor unfortunate soul captured there by the mire. Sunset is fast-approaching by the time he’s reached the riotous slough— a chattering chorus of cricket- and cicadasong rising up to greet him as he descending into the darkening fen.

His last visit here had been obscured by a tempestuous halfbreed, whom he only recalled after noticing a swathe of white in the distance of his peripheral gaze. Uncommon to his typical constitution, Grievous hesitated. For a moment he stood trapped between his desire to posses another able body for the shadewood, and filling his stomach. The latter of his wants seemed more pressing than the former, but in the end it is the color of her fur that enticed him towards her; a stark and shining beacon that reminded him suddenly of a covetous nature he carries with him that has been quelled for some time now.

As a lone wolf, there didn’t ever seem to be any time to indulge in his infatuation for white wolves— but he sets aside a moment for it now, picking up a noticeably heavy stride so that she might become aware of his presence as he padded languidly nearer.

[/td][/tr][/table]