Witch's Marsh Oh [m]y God, she looks so helpless, and her body's saying: "Hell yes."

To patrol had not been his intentions, nor had he possessed any others. He’d simply been wandering, slowly and aimlessly, throughout the grove. To seek out one of the others was an idea that had crossed his mind, but he’d never followed through with it. He’d continued on his own instead, unable to know what awaited him up ahead.

The scent had hit him first, and he’d been forced to stop and try and wrap his head around what he’d caught wind of. It was Potema, he’d first thought, before realizing that that couldn't possibly be true. Why would she be there? Especially when there mingled with the wolf’s scent something that he’d experienced before—the hex of a witch, he’d once believed it to be, but now knew it to be something else entirely. Without thinking, he’d trailed after the assumed stranger, only to then spot the very same female that he’d thought he had smelled. It’d taken him too long to realize, his body having already been moved into her line of sight when he’d forced his legs to stop. Silence followed and he stared towards her, disallowing his body the opportunity to move nearer to her. “Potema?” he’d called out seconds later, needing confirmation, and then a reason. Why was she there, and who had let her leave the woods?