Fishblight Mire he came from bone

though the mid-afternoon was nice weather wise — the sun shines through the thin, wispy clouds that drift lazily across the baby blue sky — but it is cold. would that be the worst of the issues that the wilds suffered, though spyridion harbors the ignorance of an fresh-faced explorer just making his entrance into the teekon wilds. though he does not note any large prey in the mire, he doesn't find this particularly concerning. it is an ugly stain of a territory. little but mud — as far as he can tell — and the stench that hangs thickly in the air causes his nose to wrinkle on more than one occasion.

alas, he does not wish to retrace his steps and muddles thru the cold mud that squelches under foot with each step that he takes, soldiering towards the heart of the territory, ghostly pale gaze flitting keenly at his surroundings.

nanowrimo: 154