Witch's Marsh well you may be a lover, but you ain't no dancer

shut up she does, but a low whine starts in the rear of her throat and begins the steady climb out of her maw, gaining in strength and pitch. ears are tucked so closely to her skull it almost appears as if she's lacking them, eyes wide and glazed with terror. 

desperate eyes fix on the woman as again he speaks, the bitter taste of bile held at bay only by a very thin level of constraint. "maybe—maybe she's not, you, you don't know—" run, you fumbling idiot. shouts her brain, but her limbs seem quite cut off from the rest of her nervous system and remain rooted in the filth. she vomits into the mire.

maw opens, closes. that woman is dead dead dead and she's going to be next. abruptly, her legs decide to reconnect to the rest of her body, and she pivots with such violent force she falls into the mire. she rights herself after a brief struggle. "you're not, you can't, I'll—" and then she's gone, tearing through the marsh with more desperation than she's ever felt, tail curled tightly to her side and fear carved into every tendon.