Black Morass Idealism sits prison

He felt rather useless. Marking borders and scouting their interior lands seemed almost mundane, He hunted game with the pack, though they hadn’t been particularly successful, and he imagined that in itself was worrisome for the leaders of the Grove, given they had two young mouths to feed.

Mouths he had avoided until now. He scouted the nearby lands—the swampy morass an unpleasant sensation to the golden wolf who had been raised in a forest and then a mountain.

The girl’s stark pale pelt stood out, and he noted the stillness of her youthful form. Nervous? Perhaps she had seen something, or sensed something nearby?

Oblivious to the idea that she lived her life in the dark, the Ostrega began to saunter forward, his sharp eyes focused on her as he gave a casual nod. “Hey, you okay? You’re one of Phox’s kids, yeah?”