Otatso Wetlands a sword, a gun and a bottle of fun

She laughs at the woman's blunt statement, stretching her own paws out one atop another. Mud trails against the rock where she positions them. She pays it no mind. "... Poet." The sinner remembers, this time, what she is to disregard. If she will ever say her name without a soft pause beforehand, where to the would slot in, it is too soon for her to tell.

Stretching out, she looks to the wetlands, expression peaceful. "Did you traverse this?" She asks. The mud on the other had gone higher than on Poet's own paws, and so she wonders how deep into the thicket the magnificent woman travelled before being thwarted. To her at this moment, it seems insurmountable, a test of wills. But she has been trained from birth to look for fables and trials in the every day. Jude certainly looks like a character from a moral tale, a demi-goddess, perhaps, or a chosen hero. The thought makes her smile, though her expression is unreadable. "I've never seen it before," she adds, referring to the brackish mess underfoot, or under rock, as the case may be.