Witch's Marsh a cursed place

He had to see it for himself.

Wretched—the lands of the swamp had never held a memory of contentment to the man. And now, a watery grave to Moss.

He found her—it was hard to miss the blood. Mud had sprayed the scene—blood, water and muck.

All of it, devastation. Worse, still, was the fact he had not even known she was pregnant. Was he this absent, in the lives of his pack mates? His family?

Akavir looked down to her now—so still. @Moss had been a statue of a wolf in life—but now, in death, as still as ever, there was no stern countenance upon her features. No snide remark, or to the point assessment.

She lay in bracken and blood… soon, likely to be devoured by the waters and insects. This was not how a warrior should die. This was not what she deserves.

He bowed his head, sitting with her as the sun set, breathing in… and then out. “Gabh fois, a charaid.” Only in the wee hours of the morning would he begin his solemn trek back to the creek.