Otatso Wetlands there's no rest for the weary

He heard the other before he could smell her, masked as such things were in the stench of the wetlands. Though she was careful, there were small noises even the stealthiest of wolves could not mask—and vagabond that he was, Curran had grown accustomed to them. For a moment, it seemed that she would move on and the greeting he was about to call died in his throat. He loved company, rare that it was to come by, but the Phase would not push himself upon one that did not wish company in return. As he was about to return his head to the earth, however, it appeared that the dark female had changed her mind.

She had doubled back, drawing nearer to the precious patch of dry that he currently occupied. He did not feel threatened, though she carried herself stiffly—perhaps wary of him, or simply abiding by the stricter instincts of wolves. Curran, optimist by nature, never had much use for such rituals (though he begrudgingly followed them when necessary). She remained silent, but there was no aggression in her posture; in fact, she seemed to be silently asking him a question.

Usually, such passive communication went over Curran's head. He was not made for subtleties. But here, with the poor female's hindquarters still in the wet and muck, he could only assume she was asking if he would share. He shifted slightly, making room, before nodding his head towards the freshly created space.