Felltree Marsh Hell is truth, seen too late.

He tried to station himself on a patch of raised soil that wasn't as slippery, or some roots twisting free of the loam, and couldn't quite scramble to any spot that could support his weight. He got his chest free and was briefly teetering, then began to scramble with his hind limbs, kicking and reaching with his hind paws in an effort to lift free of the muck completely. Revui was oblivious to the spitfire that marched so near; he was too thoroughly distracted by his need to be free and clean again.

When he finally did get out of the mire he was rancid. The slime wasn't just a nasty brown color, it held a certain terroir that left him gagging and sputtering. The boy's usual jagged spine was matted and his umber-coated body slowly began to dry beneath the summer sun, leaving him cuccooned in layer upon layer of silt and scum. He tried to shake his shoulders and head to free himself, to dry off, but nothing flew from his body except the flapping of his dry ears.

He grunted and groaned, clamboring across a massive tree stump and on to a stony ledge where he could at least sit and be dry - and noticed, then, a flame flickering in his periphery. Revui squinted at it but said nothing, far too bothered by his current state to go chasing strangers.