Witch's Marsh No Room in Frame

He was locked in concentration. The terrain required a certain level of focus to traverse. The difficulty though did not deter him from his path. In the marshlands grew plants that couldn't be found in the maplewood. Reek hadn't stopped to think that if they only grew in the swamp, it would be a fools errand to replant it back home. Though the proximity was close, the environment was vastly different.

Though his illness had passed, his senses remained dull to the world around him. He never noticed the approach of a wolf out of eyeshot. She chuffed and Reek, being startled, nearly jumped forward with abandon. He lost his footing in the quagmire and found himself submerged, face first, in the muck and the mud with a cool, wet, flop. He scrambled back to his feet and pulled his head from the muck. He shook his pelt, but the damage had been done— he was filthy.

"Fuck," he whispered. Composing himself, he craned his neck around to catch the wolf who had approached him. If he could flush with embarrassment, he would have. Mortification and embarrassment gripped him. "Uh," he mumbled. "Sup?"