Witch's Marsh stones and bones

Quietly, quietly he followed. In the cover of dark, Voodoo stalked the wolf, though if questioned, not even he would know why. The desire was enough, and he was at the mercy of his whims. Perhaps it was the challence inherent in the terrain. All he had was sight, for the swamp erased all hope of tracking with scent or hearing. The damp moss softened his steps and held the shape of his quarry's, making the wolf easier to track and Voodoo harder to detect. The stench of the swamp helped mask him, though blinded him in turn, he had only his eyes to guide him. 

He learned from the wolf, watching where the paw-prints sucked into the mud and where they revealed sturdy land. He followed and watched, and felt quite at home here in the deep. It embodied much of what his edgy little ass wanted to be; dark and mysterious and a little bit dangerous. It fell short of what he was, scrawny and awkward, but that didn't matter. It was the ideal. He certainly felt dangerous, stalking some stranger through the woods, watching but unseen in turn. He was naught but shadow, but the darkness between the trees. And he followed.