Cricket Creek Bog if lies were cats you'd be a litter

it was not long before the contorted figure reacted to her arrival - indra remained hunkered down but he drew closer and there flickered in her gaze a wilderness - there one minute and gone the next. she did not know his intentions and his newfound proximity to her caused her rubinous winter fur to stand on end.

trailing around his neck was something she had no word for - a vine? a shriveled root? it was too flexible to be root, and too uniform for a vine. it bit into his neck like a fissure cleaved through dry earth. it bound around him like a braided river, dun and bloodied and soggy with matter and decay. the stench he carried with him was overwhelming and convulsion rifled across her muzzle as she saw the oily backs of fat and wriggling leeches feasting on his exposed wound.

she remained rooted but every instinct told her to leave. she was afraid if she ran he would give chase -- he seemed too feral to deny his predatory instinct. instead she stood her ground and quietly answered: "yes. what is that?" she had no name for the rope, but it was clear that was the object of her curiosity at present.