The air is still and quite. No breeze rustles the leaves or offers reprieve from the wet, sweltering heat. Even the canopy of branches weeping moss cannot stave off the heat of the sun as it beats down from a clear, cloudless sky. The smells in this wetlands creep into the nostrils, heavy and sticky. The smells of verdant growth, of age and rot, of stagnant water and the things that dwell in it.
It is, on a whole, like other swamps he's been in. It is not a place he ever wishes to fight in. The mud and muck sucks at his hooves with every step even though he strives to find the dry tussocks of grass and roots. There is no hurry though. He takes his time, carefully choosing his steps. His is alone. It wouldn't do to step into quicksand or catch a hoof in a hidden hole. The weather is warmer now than he is used to- it should already be fall in his mind, heralded by cool showers that bring relief from summer's heat and wash things clean before the earth settled down for winter's rest.
The stallion stumbles as the seemingly stable ground beneath one hoof gives way, proving to be nothing more than a thick mat of greenery floating on the surface of still water. He splashes through quickly. He doesn't trust what lurks under that surface, black as a night with no stars. His copper pendant swings on it's cord, thumping against his chest in an ever present reminder of it's presence. The ruby winks in the murky light, dark as heart's blood or bright as firelight. The swamp seems to bend light in queer ways.
Sweat darkens the rose-grey of his hide to pewter and mats his mane against his neck. His tail is heavy with the muck of the swamp, the ends of it tangled with mud and leaves and slapping wetly against his legs whenever he tries to flick it out of the way. Mud splashes his legs nearly to where they meet his body, obscuring some of the fern-like scars on his right hind. No such camouflage masks the marks on his face though, nor the milk-white of his blind eye and the stub of his missing ear.
He's not sure exactly when the creek he was following turned into a bog-land but he wishes now he had tried another way. He reaches a small place of firm ground and stops to asses for a moment. Better to stop and get his bearings than walk in circles. Not that he has a destination. No, he only wishes to get free of the swamp and into more welcome pastures at some point where travel is swifter, easier, and cleaner.
[ @Israfel but anyone who wants can come help him out of the swamp!]
