Witch's Marsh life is a game, where the player must appear ridiculous

Her focus was all askew. She lifted a paw, trying to batt away those terrible gnats that took special pleasure in buzzing about her face. It seemed hopeless. She was something of a target for them and their unrelenting persistence about her form led her into some kind of disarray. She lost track of what she'd scented and now her walking was more of a fleeing sort of thing. She thought she was escaping this place. Instead her paws only pressed deeper into the heart of this mire.

Oblivious to everything but her own discomfort, her footing became unsure. She tripped, stumbling over the tangle of a twisted root, becoming entrapped in a veil of moss, and then stumbling into a the warm body of another creature. She shrieked as she recoiled, shaking her head free of the hanging grey mosses as she scrambled from where she'd toppled upon the ground back to her paws. This was not the least bit lady like or dignified. This place was absolutely horrid.

"Well, where did you come from?" she snapped, in something of a mood as she tried to pick herself off the ground and straighten out her coat. At least now the swamp flies seemed to thin now that they had another stranger to harass.