Felltree Marsh a bucket and a [m]op

the shalp-shlap of something coming was ignored; just another sound of the marsh. when it came close, diesel snorted, to inform the deer or boar or whatever that she had no fucks left to give.

the chuff was what made her head pull itself free of the muck, the good side brown and its eye encrusted shut, to turn and squint at the wolf.

"...hack you 'ant?" said in the voice of a woman too tired to be pissed off.

one hazel eye went up, up, up and down the form. big motherfucker. grey as pavement. sight of a pale giant might've sent her into shell-shocked panic, but his face wasn't hers. too long, too dumb-looking. none of that hardness the big bitches of the wolflands had. just a fucker lucky enough to win the gene lottery.

diesel snorted. beneath the hot air and stale water was a scent that made her twitch. 

it was a guy.

for some reason, she looked at him again and thought; good enough.

the mastiff rolled onto her back, yawning and stretching her legs skywards. she gave him a lazy smirk. 

"-hat, ne'er sheen sho'one hot ash 'ee?"