Cricket Creek Bog A liar and a cheat, but I could be so much worse

He continued to crawl his way through the Wilds, otherwise quick travel made cumbersome by the hefty antlers he dragged over mountain and moor. The wetlands were perhaps the worst; his paws sank through the loamy ground and mossy growth caught against the once-proud antler's tines. Any other might have left the showy prize stuck in some tangled root in some forest far reaches behind, but this was the only remnant he had of his mother, at least the only tangible memory, and he would not be so quick to abandon her.

But the efforts made him weary, and here he stopped to rest upon a more solid swath of ground. The waters flowed in clear pools around him -- such a contrast, to the earthy mud that made his midnight fur seem almost like a reflection of the blessed. Curious -- and his mouth twisted in amusement. He wondered how far he walked from them now, wondered if they blamed him, wondered if he even cared. He wondered these, and caught his breath, and traced the carvings his mother had set within the delicate tines.