Felltree Marsh the hanged man

From this distance, she couldn’t discern much detail about the figure, aside from its color. Masquerade drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, though the wind wasn’t blowing in her favor. All she could smell here was the potent urine markings left by her own comrades and the stale stench of the swamp wafting over this corner of the rise.

The pale shape moved and her body tensed as Masque’s eyes followed it. When the angle changed slightly, she thought she could make out the telltale snout of a fellow wolf, as well as the long bottlebrush of a tail. She sipped in another breath, glancing over her shoulder and wondering if she ought to call Relic back to interrogate this interloper.

But the wolf—if it was a wolf—wasn’t actually intruding, nor anywhere near it. Masque pressed her lips together and found herself picking carefully toward the marsh. The ground quickly changed underfoot, going from firm and rocky to much softer, with a certain give that made her pause and look down wonderingly. She thought of the moose she and Redd had stalked not so long ago, the way the cow’s hooves had sounded softer than her calf’s despite her greater weight.

Intrigued by this medium which lent itself to moving nearly noiselessly, Masque kept inching forward until she was in the marsh proper. Her eyes flicked up to locate the figure again, realizing with a start that they must have been moving toward one another this entire time. Even from all the way back here, she could now see dark eyes set in a dusty, decidedly wolfish face.