Otatso Wetlands mud masks

Irene’s ears flicked at the sound of the bark, her sharp emerald eyes locking onto the pale figure moving cautiously through the wetlands. She straightened, blood still smeared across her muzzle from the half-finished meal, and let her gaze linger on the approaching stranger. 

The snowwoman’s voice was light, almost melodic, but Irene’s instincts kept her guarded. She lowered her head slightly, her stance neither threatening nor welcoming, as she answered, her tone edged with dry amusement. 

Hello yourself, she said, her tail giving a single slow wave. Not often someone walks toward the scent of blood. Brave, or just curious?