Otter Creek the slowest spark is a breather

No problem, anytime!

Her descent through the brush went somewhat smooth. Though there were times when the undergrowth grabbed and tangled with her feet, the snow had packed most of it down. Without the flourish of foliage, it was also easier to spy where any brambles were as well. There had been a time too many in her original trek down to the Wilds where she had met the wrong end of a thorny menace. In her progression towards the water, something else slowly garnered her attention. A smell, one that she originally could not place and could only describe as brackish, but fresh. And then all at once, it came to her — the smell of open wounds. Perhaps they belonged to something living, or perhaps it was simple the marker of something beginning to turn. Echelon could not decide which.

As her pace dwindled to a drawn out stop, she tested the air once again. Whatever it was or whoever it belonged to, it was close by. Casting her gaze at the scenery around her, she could not immediately ascertain the minute details. It was enough to unnerve her ever so slightly, evidenced in the way a trail of dark guard-hairs bristled. It was then that she found her weariness dulled the senses she normally kept sharp; the feeling felt more than just an insult to her. She pressed on abruptly, deciding that perhaps it was better just to move on than investigate things further. Might've been a clever trap left behind by anything, and at any rate, woodlands were always full of other predators.