Witch's Marsh there was a man whom sorrow named his friend

@Ira sorry this is short!

At first glance, the filthy, tattered form lying so still in the cold marsh looks dead. Perhaps he would have been better off that way — but the wolf lives, somehow. The wounds scattered across his body are in various stages of healing, miraculously uninfected; physically, his recovery will be brief. The damage done to his fragile mind is another story entirely — but that isn't so apparent now. The only sign of his consciousness is the occasional fluttering of his eyelids, though his eyes never remain open for more than a second. The light is as searing against his eyes as the air against his skin, though the latter is unavoidable. He's frozen in place half from the pain alone, and half from exhaustion. Realistically, he should never have left the coast alive — but he's here, alive and suffering as he's always been, waiting for the sweet release of a death that will not come for him.