Witch's Marsh You are paying for that snake to be dry-cleaned

Aside from a few wayward souls crossing through the marsh, Ibis was left to her own devices. It was pretty boring. Most of her time was spent hunting for signs of Okeanos and worrying over the nothingness she found — she knew she should move on, branch out. Maybe even return to the Lost Creek and pledge herself to her father's pack again, at least until the season's disastrous theme faded and spring arrived. Then again, she did not want to be the victim of a poor social image; if she joined and then left, what would that say about her sense of duty or her worth? The last thing Ibis wanted was to be labelled a flake - well, maybe not the very last thing. She didn't savour the thought of being turned away at their border either. Times were tough, and she couldn't rely on her blood connection to Terance for much longer when all the food was vanishing from the Wilds.

Alas, she had some problems to sort through.

Ibis dallied along the paths that she had come to know; these sections of packed clay, or segments of dry reeds which were firmly rooted between the larger, older trees. It was a bit of an acrobatic route but it kept her mentally engaged as she figured out each step. The cold didn't bother her as much as one might have expected either. She'd grown used to it, and knew not to delve in to the softer areas of the territory, least of all the shallow pools. There wasn't much water along the western edge of the territory but there was just enough to leave her miserable.

As the girl descended along a knobby system of roots (they fell across a dead stump almost like a giant paw with pronounced knuckles) she thought she heard voices. Her heart leapt in to her throat, instantly. Ibis pivoted sharply towards the sound and deftly leveraged herself back down, towards where the sounds came from. She was still a ways away — but she was eager to find whoever it was, thinking chiefly that it could be her lost brother.