Felltree Marsh the heron's legs.

she supposes this place would be a mess in warmer weather. as it was, the cold had locked in the muck, and the smell that came with it. it is merely a dilapidated wasteland, now, and there's no love in Avicus's gaze as she surveys it from the edge of the rise, pissing upon each stump and fallen log that marks the border.

"MEEER-AYYYYYYY!"

her head jolts up, the last of her stream hitting the snow ground with a muffled hiss. shaking herself briefly, she picks her way carefully through the marsh, ducking under bits of trees caving in under heavy snow.

a dark figure appears before her, barely visible against the dim-lit place—so invisible that if there was any familiarity about him, Avicus can't pick it up.

and yet— why you yell? she inquires crossly, but her nostrils are already flaring. his scent. . .