Willfur
It's a slight detour from his main objective, but once he'd left the close, muted quarters of the forest for more open ground and spotted the orange and pink of sunset reflecting harshly off what must be water in the distance, the colors shimmering back at him through a low lying blanket of fog, the claybank mule just had to veer off course, turning sharply south to indulge his curiosity.
As he approaches, it's the odor that strikes him first, a mixture of algae, rotting wood, and stagnant water. A swamp! And an enormous one at that. Beneath his hooves the soil gradually becomes more saturated and less densely packed. The ferns, shrubs, and wide bladed grass of the plains and forest dwindle, giving way to longer stemmed aquatic varieties. Huge, smooth trunked trees rear up out of the water at regular intervals, their bases wide and insulated by moss and creeping vines. Everything is green; it's only the shades that differ, ranging from florescent chartreuse to deep olive.
The stallion makes a low, appreciative noise in his throat, watching as the last streaks of color fade from both sky and reflection, anticipating the beauty of moonlight captured in mist, stars twinkling all around him, mirrored by the still surface of the marsh. He steps knee deep into the muck, strings of neon green swirling around his legs and clinging to the tips of his fur. The water is warm against his skin, pleasant.
He murmurs to himself, resting one hind hoof on its toe beneath the surface. "I've got the best seat in the house."
