it is surely a ploy to drive her mad, send her teetering to the edges of what little land sanity yet harboured. the constant whirring and chirping driving deep into the canals of dark lined ears, vibrating incessantly, the striking sound echoing through her whole frame, or at least seeming to. corners of black lips curl downward, muscles pulling subtly taut about the nose and eyes as teeth grit. ( o pestilence, are you not? are not plagues your speciality? ) every inch of the woman S C R E A M S stiffness, irritation written in the lining of each robotically placed limb as charmaigne sluices determinedly through the wetlands. ears lie flat against peppered skull in uncommonly blatant expression of distaste as the ghoul makes note to traverse the mountains next time hunger called for a venture inland — surely the harsher terrain ought to harbour less pack territories to avoid ( and fewer swarms ) 

unfortunately, that idea hadn't occurred to the girl prior to this voyage, hence it was that the pale cretin found herself stopping to sneer at her right forepaw. lifting the ivory appendage, it became quickly obvious what was the cause of upset — a grasshopper, clicking and writhing where it was caught between her toes. teeth bare in a grimace, followed by the descent of the wraith's angular skull; jaws clack together, rear teeth clashing inelegantly as fangs withdraw the culprit: and crush the insect betwixt them. an unsavoury meal for certain, but satisfactory in the gratification vengeance provides. murdering only one of the uproarious squall really shouldn't leave the de mercy feeling so smug.

decayed goat-hide was perhaps not the most inaccurate description of charmaigne's pelt, especially given the mess that had probably been made of it in efforts to trek these deplorable and unfamiliar lands. buzzing creature safely relocated to the she-wolf's stomach opposing her paw, pale green scanned between the stained toes once more through narrowed lids and finally settled once-white appendage back onto the boggy un-earth. ( for that's all that could be used to describe the dangerous marsh, apparently solid if a little wet but more than prepared to give way without moment's notice )

distracted by wetlands and insects alike, the appropriately on-edge girl completely fails to register company until red counterpart ( WAR – come to guide pestilence on the great hunt? ) speaks, cutting through mind of steel wool. lost. " perhaps… " muses the lanky wraith, head cocking in manner of expression that face did not match, that it lacked. " i know where i am, effectively: carefully avoiding the all too common pack territories, winding through some forsaken marsh. but otherwise- oui, i suppose i must admit it. " the tug of brows into something of a frown marks charmaigne's realisation of how much of that was spoken aloud compared to usual brevity, otherwise the pale creature merely turns to better catch the priestess in her sights. what was the cause, the benefit of asking someone if they're lost, after all? it left the young wolf curious – was she about to receive directions to some ridiculous paradise? or would conversation simply end there? 

hopefully whichever it was, she could divert the discussion to best hunting regions and glean some tips, otherwise her plan to subsist on a plebeian diet until there was a better chance to learn the lands would have to be cut short: there was far too much tracking, stalking and patience involved, as compared to simply challenging and taking down a wolf.