Otatso Wetlands Flatworm

The marshland was oppressive. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of rotting vegetation and stagnant water. Morwenna stepped lightly through the mire, her stark paws darkened with each step as the bog clung to her. The landscape was unfamiliar, and yet, it resonated with a sense of untamed power—a place that refused to bend to the will of wolves or any other creatures.

She moved carefully, her silvered eyes scanning the shadows for signs of life. The swamp was alive with sounds: the rhythmic croak of frogs, the occasional rustle of unseen things. It was eerie, unsettling even, but Morwenna was not easily deterred.

And then she saw her—a shadowed figure crouched on a patch of damp earth, her dark form blending almost seamlessly with the surroundings. Morwenna’s ears twitched as she watched the woman devour a frog, her silvered eyes reflecting the dim light of the bog. She was strange, this one, her demeanor neither inviting nor hostile. It was as if she belonged to the swamp itself, another piece of the untamed wilderness.

Strange place for a meal, Morwenna called softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach the other without disturbing the marshland’s uneasy stillness. Her tone was even, measured, and laced with a curiosity she did not bother to conceal. She stepped closer, but not too close, her posture neutral.

What brings you to a place like this? she asked, her gaze fixed on the dark woman. The bog isn’t exactly known for its hospitality.

There was no accusation in her voice, only a quiet inquisitiveness. She stood, waiting, her star-hued fur stark against the murky backdrop of the swamp, an observer seeking answers from the stranger in the muck.