Otatso Wetlands but I wouldn't want to live there.

Stillness, for an instant. The world was so very serene except for the sounds nature brought them, but even that seemed to cease... and then she hears it move again. Tonravik does not move, but remains still, her eyes looking for what she would not find. In time, the water lapping at her own knees seems to rise with the nearness of the other, licking higher. The sound is louder, too; it sounds large, but she cannot be certain. And so her rumble transforms into an angry snarl. I bite, the emission promised. The sound does not die.

She does not move, however; her perked ears are what will tell her if the other challenges her, decides to attack her, and her movement would compromise her ability to hear. Until the other came into her line of sight—soon, she knew—all she had were her ears, and the muddy-eyed wolf was quite reliant on that sense in these moments. Muzzle wrinkled and fangs exposed, Tonravik prepared, a poised snake prepared to strike.