Cricket Creek Bog comme un boomerang

Backdated to the 18th, or thereabouts.

So. Les Saints. They are an interesting bunch; on the move (on the run?). Fearsome warriors, from what he's seen. He doesn't fit in much within the brawn, but he hopes his brains can be of some use. His brains, his, ah, how to word it—

Lack of giving a fuck?

He chuckles to himself while slogging through the bog, constantly amused at the machinations of his mind. A rat darts out before him and he charges, missing it by inches; the rodent sails into the reeds. No easy snacks here. Everything is furtive.

Furtive and fetid, and even in the daytime, the place has a dimness to it that he's unsure about. He doesn't exactly know what he's doing here, beyond being alone with his thoughts. Suppose he's constantly looking for something new. An excitement, a diversion.

God knows why he thinks he'd find it here. Donatien stretches, paws splayed out before him in the mud, and unleashes a monstrous yawn.

Ennui. He knows it well.