Witch's Marsh please let me blaze

gleipnir rises with the cresting of the morning sun, though the sky above the marsh an overcast grey as a fine mist of rain falls from the heavens. it is the chilling dampness the mist brings with it that seeps into his bones that stirs him awake and he rises to his paws against the tall deadening stalks of cattails he has sunk into for the night. they offer poor bedding and poorer camouflage but beggars could not afford to be choosers and loathe though he might be at the notion, he must take rest where and when he can. even if it is a stench filled, soupy marsh.

he glimpses down at his forelegs, thinking that it will take several baths to rid himself of the dirt and mud that cakes him, he gives a toss of his head and pushes on, trying to discern the exit from this infernal marshland that seems to take delight in confusing his sense of direction, leaving him to stew in seething frustration as he discovers, yet again, that he has traveled in a wide circle.