Cricket Creek Bog war tongues flickered about that dirty old church mouth

anyone! :}

ridden with hunger, the slovenly wolf took bounding strides across the paludal expanse. his long tongue slung from his jowls, gums mud-encrusted and cords of drool matted into his cheeks ruffs. the ligature of rusted metal chafed his neck with the momentum, and froth rimmed his lips as sharp pain spidered across the nerves of his neck and ears. 
attempts to unfetter himself only caused more agony—he could work the metal loose, at the risk of ripping open flesh that had grown over the links and it would not be long before infection proliferated his body and he would perish. 
rasped breaths persisted, now, however, as sickly as they sounded. he came to a stop, his sun-swallowed eyes taking stock of the still swathe, the angular jut of his bones pressing against taut skin of his spine obvious without motion to disguise the extent of his maceration.

Would you mind if we moved this to right before Tindómë's move?

They wouldn't have to suffer in seclusion for much longer, thankfully. Delight had already sent Jomyo out to find a new territory for the wolves of Tindómë to claim, which meant that they would be moving any day now. Queenie was tired of marking borders that no one ever crossed; it made her feel unaccomplished as a mercenary, as if her work was a game.

I am not a joke, Queenie thought bitterly as she wandered aimlessly around the Tuktu. Getting out of the forest was what she needed to level herself sometimes, and she was confident that Delight understood. Besides, being alone gave her the chance to encounter some particularly trying (and educational) experiences.

A familiar scent wafter past Queenie's flared nostrils. Those light eyes of hers began darting left to right in search of its source, though she couldn't quite place it. I know you, she thought to herself, though she was becoming increasingly unsure.

no problem. sorry, i didn't see this had a reply to it :) thanks for joining!

like himself, queenie, with her uniquely mottled coat, was an undeniable sore thumb in the sunflecked everglades. he didn't recall their erstwhile encounter as having a surplus of meaningful context, and did not sense her with any notability. the weight of nothing around being Indra confounded his faculties--she was the only thing he would ever smell again, aside from his own rot.
it took her form materializing to draw his eye from its tired canvass. he observed her mincing steps; the unsure flit of her gaze, and reflected from a distance on the vague familiarity that connected their lives. despite biological imperative, absalom was seldom a wolf to join at the seams of social quilts, so it took him only a few beats to remember the female's relevance in his memory--it had been an encounter that was, at best, of little consequence. he pulled up the mental tab reminding him of her accusation--that he was self-pitying, but that was the only indelible annotation of their interaction he could recollect.
nothing but his legs moved as he strode nearer towards her; like a statue under a spell of labored animation. his eyes considered her briefly, but he did not surmirse he would greatly benefit from engaging her in conversation for a second time.

Once the male was in Queenie's view, he was recognized immediately. This was the same brute from before who had allowed himself to be maimed, expecting pity from the mercenary as a result. The entire thing had either meant that he was one hell of a con, or a truly deranged and defenseless lug. One was certainly more respectable than the other, though it stirred up more wariness.

After thinking a moment, Queenie decided that she ought to speak. You heal up yet? she called with a half-glare.

he didn't bother rescinding his bland gaze in deference under the faint pall of disdain in her expression. he figured this would be a mere whistle-stop and then he could proceed with tracing over the path of rose petals, but as for right now, Absalom would entertain the notion that he was interested in more of her opinions as regards to his character. a smirk twitched at his black gums. "truly flourishing." he remarked, shimmying his breast to emblazon the chain still secured and rivening his throat; same as the first time they met. 
a more apt question to ask would have been, you not dead yet?-- the rash of winged pests following him overhead wanted to know the answer to that as well.

The comment brought about a snort from Queenie and a sly smile. Her eyes scanned the strange adornment around the brute's neck, wondering, Where did it come from? Now that they had gotten over their initial meeting and his weird approach, she thought that the two of them ought to be able to have (mildly sarcastic) small talk. 

After a pensive lick of her chops, Queenie commented, I don't recall your name, stranger.