Felltree Marsh i was in darkness

A light fog had settled over the Felltree Marsh but Ghost's analytic silver gaze told him that this Marsh had certainly seen better days. His eyes were cold and unfeeling as it slid over the fallen trees that cut shadows through the thin fog and spindly limbs floated in the mud and muck that made up the floor of the marsh. He waded through it, deigning to stay away from the deeper parts of the mud not truly wanting to become a victim of a devouring mud hole. He'd heard of them: like quicksand. It looked like regular mud but when one's weight was added to it you sunk and the more you struggled, the deeper it pulled you in and the quicker it brought you to your death though Ghost did not think suffocating by the earth was a quick death. No doubt it was torturous. No, that was to be avoided.

His paws sunk into the muck but put up little resistance when he rose each front paw and kept his pace steady until he reached solid ground. It was slick with variation of green mosses and littered with skeletal limbs and fallen trunks some of which were made hollow with rot. Admittedly, the marsh was not an ideal place for life to flourish besides birds: those that appeared to be weightless and could fly their way out of marsh. It was a desolate place and in some morbid way it was a perfect haunt for him. If he were a beast that put stock into symbolism he might have drawn the connection: both were vessels for death and destruction. However, Ghost did not believe in symbolism. Simply, it was a bleak place and it was his haunt for the moment.

There were packs directly to the south and east of the marsh which made him realize that he either had to head back west the way he'd came or venture north towards the rise. He did not particularly desire to retrace his steps thus he turned his attention to the territories of the north, idly wondering how much further north he'd go before he left the Wilds all together. It seemed counter productive, admittedly, though without a purpose the wraith gave the impression that he was aptly named: he was lost and simply, he wandered.

Ghost's freedom was nothing more than a illusion. The relief at finally ending The Officer's life had been swallowed by the realization that without commands to comply to he was ...a shell. Empty. He had no desires of his own, he had no dreams, no inkling of a future. He'd always lived in the moment, lived for the next mission. The next assassination. It was a suffocating realization, a terrible and frightful thing to realize. He had no identity beyond the one The Officer had so carefully and harshly forged. The little girl would live, she would be full of life and that had been worth the gruesome and bloody battle, Ghost realized, but in saving her he had destroyed his own life, his own purpose.

A heavy sigh left the wraith's lips moments before he gave his rich, mahogany brown coat a hearty shake, dispelling the moisture it'd taken from the watery mud. A flash of white caught his attention in the distance, drawing his predatory gaze. A crane, he realized from it's long legs and ivory plumage. It was a large bird and had settled a few feet from him. Slowly, Ghost crouched, watching it with baited breath. He was not sure if it was hunger that pushed him or simply the desire to have a purpose even one so small as taking the bird's life: his muscles pulled taunt, coiled, prepared to spring and after he determined that nothing was there to spook his unsuspecting prey off he lunged at it, jaws agap as he aimed for it's long and slender neck.