Witch's Marsh ach, ich bin des Treibens müde!

the skull grows near, attached to it the finely carved body of a coyote, moving with grace through the mire. she remains still, watching, even as a pair of dark-winged scavengers alight in the vicinity. her chin lowers, examining the skull that speaks in a manner that requires an extra moment of comprehension. a moment passes before her maw slips open. "no." a sound that could just as easily have been an exhale of breath, and is just as likely to be mistaken as one. 

again, muzzle cants, intrigue tempted. one of the crows alights further down the log, and begins a careful stride toward the remains of the rabbit. a brief swivel of her ears, but otherwise, the scavenger is ignored.