Felltree Marsh the hanged man

Gradually, the sound of the other’s footfalls reached her ears, although “footsteps” did not seem like the right word, Masque noted. She tilted her head, pricking her ears toward the sound of distant suction. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard, though it brought to mind the sound of her siblings slurping at the proverbial dinner table. She kept listening, eventually coming up with a slightly more astute comaprison: it made her think of the squelching her feet made in mud after a rainstorm.

The stranger took notice of her and Masquerade sat up a little straighter, albeit with her head ducked a bit below her shoulder blades, which drew back. Her head weaved a little bit as they locked eyes across the distance, each trying to get a read on the other. Despite her solitary tendencies, Masque found she was quite curious about this wolf from beyond the borders. Not counting Requiem, she had never met anyone outside of Redtail Rise.

Glancing over her shoulder, Masquerade bit at the inside of her cheek. She then faced forward again and moved cautiously toward the other wolf, near enough now to catch a whiff of her scent. It told the Bearn a few things, though not enough to satisfy her curiosity completely. Her gilded eyes cast behind the unfamiliar woman, wondering if she was alone, like Masquerade herself.

She had recently come to terms with the merits of speech, especially in situations with lots of complex social nuances, such as this one. But Masque was still a young woman of few words, so rather than vocalize a greeting, she dipped her ruddy head, waved her tail and mouthed a silent “hello.”