Frogspawn Swamp The lives we've reclaimed.

From his vantage point upon the hill where he basked, he could watch as tufts of cotton drifted off of the nearby trees, or fragmented bits of pollen and petals fluttering over the swamp. It might've smelled like sulfur at the worst of times, but if he ignored his nose then it became almost, almost a pretty sight to behold. He missed the brine-scent of the sea more and more though, and knew he would be leaving by nightfall. The thought made him smile at first. Further consideration of his shifting future and the role he'd have within Rusalka turned that smile in to a tense line, then it faded completely. Best to just bask in the warmth of the sun and try not to think, then.

Firefly felt a yawn pitch its way up his throat, and as his maw gaped he paired the sensation with an eager stretch; toes splayed, elbows popped, and he sank back against the grass —

What the actual fuck, Am-BRO! burst a far-off voice; the sound broke the quiet of the moment and his one good ear pivoted, and in one fluid motion he was sitting up, turning to observe whoever the hell had called out. They weren't too far away by the time he took notice of their glimmering golden coat — he was reminded vaguely of Svalinn who had a similar palette, but more muted — and otherwise made no move. Not a single shred of actual recognition passed over his grim features but he got to his feet, shook bits of grass from himself, and tried to approach the stranger for a better view.

He got a few feet closer before pausing; the wind had changed, pulling their scent towards him and surprising him, because there was something familiar about it. A sweetness. A newness, similar to the scent carried by many women back on his beach. What was a pregnant woman doing out here in the swamp? He huffed, intent on minding his own business, but really couldn't help it as he called back, That your baby daddy? You shouldn't be out here lady — a swamp isn't exactly ideal for your affliction.