Otatso Wetlands mud masks

Irene listened with quiet interest as Rala spoke, the gentle lilt of her voice weaving fragments of her past encounters into something almost tangible. The mention of names—Sivaak and Faust—piqued her curiosity, though she did not press for details. Instead, she allowed herself a moment of reflection, emerald eyes fixed on the snowwoman with an expression both thoughtful and reserved.

When Rala’s question came, Irene’s lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. Stories... she echoed softly, as though tasting the word. Her tail flicked lazily behind her, brushing the earth as she considered the query. I suppose I have a few. Most of them are fragments, pieces of something larger that never quite came together. My life’s been less of a tale and more of a puzzle—scattered, yet somehow whole.

She shifted slightly, gaze drifting upward to where the sky stretched endlessly above them. There was one, though, she began, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. A lone wolf, long ago. He had a scent like pine and frost—sharp, unyielding. I met him on the edge of the mountains, where the air was thin, and the stars felt close enough to touch.

Her eyes softened as she spoke, though a shadow lingered behind them. He was unlike any I had met before and told me that every wolf is chasing something, whether they know it or not. For him, it was peace. For me... Irene trailed off, her smile fading as she turned her gaze back to Rala. 

I think I’m still figuring out what I’m chasing, she admitted. Maybe it’s the same thing. Or maybe it’s something entirely different. Her head tilted slightly, a flicker of humor brightening her expression.