Fishblight Mire She loved the lines around his mouth

The warmth of afternoon sunlight brewed and boiled the swamplands. Hazy horizon lines were obscured by the mirage of heat, speckled by flies winging lazily on the updraft, feasting on something dead and foul-smelling. An unappealing place, but a safe one, thought the red wolf. And when she saw a heron wing away with a sizeable fish in its grasp, she concluded too that the spoil was worth the smell. 

With the same careful stalk the long-legged bird had used, she stepped hesitantly through the marsh. Her furry paws and legs made loud sucking noises as she took each step through the murk, but she was a patient creature and slowed her progress so she might disturb the local fauna less. Another heron landed nearby; she sized it up, and frowned. It was more suited to this kind of hunt than she- but she'd be damned if she didn't come up with a fish first.