Cricket Creek Bog just stop

*creeps in*

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Grievous is not a picky wolf— and despite his name, he doesn't tend to complain— so he marches through the bogland with nothing on his mind except his next meal. When it will come; what it will be.

It is all the lone wolf ever thinks about.

It is all his life of solitude permits.

But it is by pure chance that the wheelhouse of his instinctual thoughts are suddenly and completely swept away. Dashed by the distant sight of a whippish mutt trying to get its directional bearings atop a half-sunken log. Grievous falls into an interested mood, his curiousness fueled by the lack of evidence he's able to retrieve at this distance. The marshes mask the canine's scent, and the cloaking muck it wore deterred him from knowing more by sight alone.

He started to approach— coming somewhere from the back of her— but it seemed that as soon as he'd angled himself in that general direction, the wolf had disappeared from view. Subsequently, there was a cry of angst that drowned out all other sounds of nature in the vicinity; the scream of irritation almost enough to deter the hellhound from approaching further.

Slower still, he reaches the log and noisily hoists himself up on long, dirtied forelegs so that he might see the disheveled creature who had fallen. Grievous canted his head at her, but doesn't find it in himself to ask (even rhetorically) if she's okay.

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