Otatso Wetlands When I get low I prefer the cold

Though the wetlands had plenty of shelter to offer by means of its thick-boughed trees, it was extraordinarily cold here; for a lot of the water that pooled here had frozen into ice-water ponds and the ground was stinging underfoot with a practically Siberian chill. The wind didn’t help either, and Qeorvik was miserable in his solitude, pushing through the territory as quickly as he could.

His eyes caught sight of something gold flashing between the trees. A wolf. Their steps were uneven, their stride inattentive. There was something odd about the waif’s glassy-eyed movements, but the boy would not miss an opportunity to be noticed.

Hæ! he barked out, lifting his tail and prancing forward. You stop for greeting me!