Twisted Slough the ground beneath us is shaking, the sheep are finally waking

As soon as her heaving stomach allowed, she wrenched herself free from the putrid muck. She heard Riley mutter somewhere behind her but neither looked at him nor attempted to answer his question. Instead, Masquerade cast her eyes about for some way to wipe the sludge off her forelegs.

She saw what looked like solider ground scattered with leaves and made a bid for it, treading carefully lest she walk into another fetid morass. As soon as she was certain the ground wasn’t about to give away, she bent down and began wiping her forelegs. Only, instead of the muck coming off, it only acted like glue, covering her legs in dead leaves and other detritus.

Sighing, she stood up again. A flash of movement caught her eye, though Masque didn’t register the fleeing coyote. She did spot a log and started toward it, mistakenly attributing the smell of decay to her surroundings in general. But when she came within a yard of it, there was no mistaking the canine features, despite the clear evidence of scavengers having picked over the carcass. It was not a dead tree, it was a dead wolf.

She recoiled a few steps, more startled than horrified, at least until she realized she recognized the scent underneath the overwhelming odor of decomposition. Ashlar? Masque thought, face contorting in dismayed disbelief.