Witch's Marsh They don't believe in us, but I believe we're the enemy

He looked up when a cluster of black birds lifted into the sky, their calls sudden and raucous. It wasn't often that Skáld left the pack, and given the whisperings of what had happened to one of their allies, he wasn't terribly tempted. But when he caught the scent of one of the visiting wolves straying from the pack's borders, he left, following it North past the lake. 

He knew that there was at least one new child- a newborn that Inkeri nursed. There was another as well, not quite so young but not yet a yearling, like him. He became concerned when her scent drifted across the borders, alone. Had she only gone as far as the lake he might have assumed she was simply heading back to the Creek to visit, but when her path veered toward the marsh, he hastened his step. 

He didn't know everything that had happened- but something bad had happened in the marsh. He followed her trail until it led toward a place where the earth was foul. He knew the scent of bog, but this was different- and with every step, the scent grew worse and worse. Mae's pawprints were deep pockets in the soft earth- and led to a large mound. 

One step closer and the flies lifted in a flock, revealing the hulking, sinking mass of wolf flesh. The festering eye sockets gazed forever into nowhere. 

Panic-stricken, he too scrambled and then bolted- coincidentally following the same path Mae had beat earlier.