Felltree Marsh But the prince of any failing empire knows

the other man, bearing a pelage of blondes, greets him in turn.

it is a shock to badlands to find out that he is close to a pack's borders — heartwood, the stranger names it — if only because it was hard for him to smell anything beyond the stench of dirt and mold and musk of mud.

it cloys thickly: in the air, in badlands' nose.

i didn't realize, he begins with an apologetic dip of his head. he hadn't meant to encroach ... only sought to make his way out of his damned marsh and never return to it.

it's hard to smell anything beyond this marsh, a sheepish grin is given, hope to lighten the mood; though the wardog would understand if it didn't go appreciated. just a way out of this marsh.