Twisted Slough le moineau a volé

One overnight at the plateau and she had come to some sort of resolution. A tempting idea that had baited her unspoken for a length about her subconscious. What if, it enticed. What if, what if, what if—and to what end she had not considered until sunrise had greeted her. When daylight had splattered itself across her face beneath the canopy of thin trees, she awoke considering it again.

What if she simply went and wandered, what if she simply just went to see where the path went and see if anyone particularly noticed she was astray. If any had picked up so keenly and swiftly on her unhappiness to question where she had gone. Phoebe was not the sort to stray but when things seemed particularly overwhelming in one locale, avoiding it altogether seemed a reasonable course to plot.

And so she had departed the plateau, wordlessly trekking off in some random direction.

By the time midday had crossed, the slough had revealed itself to her.

Revealing, however, was not the word that she would associate with such a place. Suffocating and dense, she was unaware of her predicament until the place had literally swallowed her whole. Dark, dank, almost decrepit by the way it overwhelmed her; the place had a stink to it and nary a good thing to it. She regretted this in a slow display, muddied and frustrated as she pressed ahead. It was not so unmanageable yet that she had lost her sense of direction, and she had managed this much without so much of a peep to trail her.

How far would get before anyone particularly cared? And that was presuming anyone noticed.

She pulled her foot free of mud with a distinctive squelch, and then again and again, ever onward.