Witch's Marsh well you may be a lover, but you ain't no dancer

the marsh is a dismal place, and she regrets entering it almost as soon as she does so. it's grimy, cold and gross; a fact accentuated by the snow and slate-grey skies. but the wolfdog's never been the best navigator, and in here, it's all too easy to get turned around. 

a voice, then. low, irate, and then a dull thump. it's enough to draw her close, though she has the sense not to go charging towards the sound. the mud sucks at her paws as she wades through semi-dry land towards the sound; best-case, the owner will know the way out. worst case—

well, worst case is suddenly spread before her. it's a male, pale and splattered with grime and blood. he's swearing, speaking to, at, a woman in the mud. she'd dead, she realizes rather swiftly, and is convinced for a moment that her heart is stopped beating, to. "oh my god," escapes her maw, shaky and underlined with fear. "she's—is she—she's dead. you—you didn't—." stammering, she stares into the man's face, cold fear making it impossible to move, to breath, to do anything but stand there and stammer like an idiot.