Witch's Marsh When your mind is quiet, you will discover me

Backdated to March 7th.

Two days sine he’d set off, two days on his own. It was unusual, to say the least; without even realising it, he’d grown accustomed to life within a pack, surrounded by others. To have struck out on his own yet again seemed like a dream—or perhaps it was a nightmare. Time would determine the truth, he was sure.

With a general direction given, Alexander kept west, stopping for breaks only when absolutely necessary—or, in this case, when he wasn’t too sure of his next move. As he came upon the outskirts of the marsh, he could do little more than stare at the lifeless flora with a furrowed brow. Was it the same as it had been in the past, or had the weather altered it? He contemplated going around the unsightly terrain but knew that doing so would likely be a waste of time and, ultimately, decided to test his luck by going through it.

Surprisingly, for the better half of the trek, the ground was fairly solid; he thanked the recent temperatures for this. However, the second he grew a tad bit too comfortable with maneuvering through the marsh, it happened: he hit a not-so-frozen patch and felt his front paw get suctioned in. The sound made him cringe, whereas the sight of the muck that now adorned his previously pristine coat infuriated him.

“Fuck,” he spat whilst ripping his paw from the swamp and carrying on to more firm grounds. There he stopped and stared at his limbs, a scowl scrawled across his face. For sure, the first thing he’d do after getting out of there would be finding a creek to rinse himself off in but, for the time being, he tore his gaze off of himself and forced his (now disgustingly muddy) legs to keep moving.