Witch's Marsh My mirror says I could use a break

even with — or perhaps from — the most recent rain, the stench of the bog had been picked up by skylla before he'd entered the territory itself. his strength had begun to return over the course of the week since the sea had unceremoniously spit him out upon the shores of the sound.

nothing about any of the territories he'd moved thru struck him as familiar.

the marsh, least of all. even while the rest of the earth had frozen from the dip in temperatures, there was a squishy-softness to the earth under foot that exposed the true nature of the bog.

wrapped in his swimming thoughts, it takes skylla a moment to realize that he is closing in on another. she, like him, stands out in stark contrast to this dismal terrain and he gives a small start when her form comes into full view; letting out a low chuff to announce his presence if the muffled squelch of his footfalls had not already done it for him.