Cricket Creek Bog war tongues flickered about that dirty old church mouth

anyone! :}

ridden with hunger, the slovenly wolf took bounding strides across the paludal expanse. his long tongue slung from his jowls, gums mud-encrusted and cords of drool matted into his cheeks ruffs. the ligature of rusted metal chafed his neck with the momentum, and froth rimmed his lips as sharp pain spidered across the nerves of his neck and ears. 
attempts to unfetter himself only caused more agony—he could work the metal loose, at the risk of ripping open flesh that had grown over the links and it would not be long before infection proliferated his body and he would perish. 
rasped breaths persisted, now, however, as sickly as they sounded. he came to a stop, his sun-swallowed eyes taking stock of the still swathe, the angular jut of his bones pressing against taut skin of his spine obvious without motion to disguise the extent of his maceration.