Otatso Wetlands Pulp Fiction Confession

He pulled himself out of a deep, dark place. His mind swirled and colors reverted slowly back into focus whereas for the past hour or so he had only been capable of seeing black and white. Haunter stood frozen in place for a pregnant pause, disoriented and disheveled until the feeling in his limbs began to return and the fur along his spine could freely ripple again. The black dog didn't relax, but rather loped off into the sunset, traipsing right out of Swiftcurrent Creek in a quick-stepping trot.

He arrived in the Wetlands sometime later that night, the moon high and his pelt cool now that the sun wasn't bearing down on his dark pelt like a magnet. Yellow eyes scanned back and forth as he continued walking, the scant, leggy wolf appearing slightly crazed around the face: his tongue lolling, mouth slick, eyes wide, and oily fur sticking out oddly around him. A vicious porcupine, tall and hateful in appearance. A damned demon that shouldn't be approached.

He appeared to be hunting, though he hardly took the precautions of a hunter, like silencing his large-footed steps or easing his breathing to a lull. The warm summer night enveloped the wolf as he splashed forward purposefully; searching for something that would never be found.