Cedar Sweep itqa

Masquerade listened to the howled message, eyes shifting as she sought to pinpoint said bog and summit. Her ears flicked at the words of caution. Masque snorted, thinking, Challenge accepted! But even when formally invited, she paused to consider.

“I’ll head your way. I’m not sure how long it will take. Don’t wait up,” she called back simply, already navigating her way down the plateau.

She retraced her steps through the nearby thicket, distracted momentarily by a clutch of broken eggs scattered across her path. Masque stopped to sniff at them, noting the strong odor of a stoat. There was nothing left for her, so with a flick of her tail, she continued loping in a generally southerly direction.

Some time later, she found herself crossing a frozen bog. Well, some areas were still held fast in winter’s clutches. Other areas were partly thawed, resulting in Masquerade getting quite filthy as she stepped in this or that puddle of chilly bog water. Her nose wrinkled. Oh, she hated these sorts of places.

“I’m getting close,” she announced about halfway through the disgusting mire, “but I don’t want to bother you, especially now that I’m covered in swamp slime.”

As her call carried on the wind, Masque suddenly spotted a thready little stream ahead. Absently flicking her mucky paws, she made a beeline toward it. A great sigh of pleasure escaped her as she stepped into the shallows. She ignored the water’s frigid temperature as she splashed herself clean.

“I found a place to clean up,” she commentated, “but you’re under no obligation to meet me. I promise I have no intention of intruding.”