Otatso Wetlands age of aquarius

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Komodo trotted on, his saucerlike paws pressing into the muddied earth and leaving a distinctive trail behind him. Normally, this giveaway would disquiet the earthstalker — as a lone wolf, your safety was never assured — but Komodo felt a strange sense of calm and languid stoicism. His mind didn’t really think, eyes didn’t see,  legs just moved and he zoned out, appreciating the earthly movement.

A shrill call bought soul to body and Komodo halted where he was, shaking the travel from his mind. Then his ears swiveled forward and pressed towards the epicenter of the noise; it was distinctly feminine so the angakkuq was not immediately concerned or put on guard [as prejudiced as that might be]. His vision focused on the sight of a young silver thing, splattered in mud, making haste towards him. The man grinned to himself; there was worse ways to pass an afternoon.

Komodo took a looming step forward, just one, and held a mottled paw hovering above the sodden ground. “Yeah?” the brute called out in his deep baritone when she was closer, entirely interested in the zestful girl’s next words.

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