Otatso Wetlands the time's come to play

He swallowed again, this time tasting the dried and crusted blood that still freckled his lips; he hadn't washed since the fight with Kierkegaard. That's.. That's very good. A smile. Brief, perhaps false, but the child was distracted enough by her meal.

With a few steps he slid through the mud, then seemed to lose his balance - or maybe he chose to fall, who knows. The mud cushioned his hefty self, sort of, and squished beneath him. A creeping sludge slid across the open wound which zagged across his curving ribs. Taste good? wheezed the man, more out of a desire for conversation than true care, or even hunger.