Witch's Marsh at the center for holy wars

Bhreac froze, startled — though he hadn't exactly snuck up on her — when the other wolf called out to her, one paw hovering in the air over the muddy ground. Her paws by now were black with dirt, and she briefly considered that after taking a dip in the lake not long ago, the best thing to do was not to immediately go splashing around a marsh, especially since her fur was a mottle of nearly-white hues even when clean. The wolf before her seemed friendly, and normal; his fur was a mottle of grey and brown and white and colors in between, with warm golden eyes. 

"Quite a bit, actually," Bhreac said with a shrug, eying the stranger carefully. She dropped her waiting paw to the ground, side-stepping slightly to find a more solid patch of earth, in case she needed to turn and run. She was beginning to realize, though, that she didn't need to be so wary, but it was a hard thing to unlearn, since her only real interaction with non-family had been so overwhelmingly negative. She gave her tail a bit of a wag, though she wasn't quite comfortable enough to smile. "Sorry if I scared you. I look like a bit of a swamp monster."