When solid ground grows soft with emerald moss and rivulets of black mud, and coffee-colored water pours slowly around the trunks of densely carpeted trees, this marks the beginning of Laod Mor: the swamp of Blossom Forest. Time itself seems to slow to a soporific crawl . . . the humid jungle air grows stagnant, thick with the scent of rich flooded earth and an abundance of green things that can be found nowhere else—except perhaps Caidir Olc. In some areas of the swamp, water rises so high the only way to cross it is to crawl across fallen logs or massive roots arching from their liquid beds; in other places a wolf might wade easily through the mire—or find a fortunate stretch of mostly dry earth. Pieces of the great river, Glaesfaet Sceawere, also slice through from time to time: small falls that feed into surprisingly clear pools, only to terminate into tar-like pits. Of course, Laod Mor’s beauty shines brightest at night. Here, fireflies gather at all times of the year . . . suffusing the shadowy place with millions of twinkling lights.

Those looking to hunt here of course find a myriad of water prey, including caiman, turtles, fish, crayfish, otters, and toads.



A lone figure moved quietly through the shadows, large, dark, looming. Shocking yellow eyes pierce the darkness the forest provides. A wolf, a giant. A fearless leader. Not.

Hurricane of Mexico was angry. He was furious. He had stumbled around in a blind rage for months. Attacking what dared to cross him, and hunting what was too scared to show it's face. Battle wounds litter his midnight pelt, blood stains his chest, his fur sticky, unkempt. If any soul came across him now they would think him insane.

Perhaps he was. Losa was gone. Gods know where she went. Or how long Hurricane had been apart from her. Time was distorted, the blind rage that had eventually taken him over blocked out everything else. Insanity filled his veins. Isn't that what happens when you lose the one you love most?

Tall dark ears flicker automatically, water. The beast hears water. He stumbles forward, large paws carrying him unsteadily toward it. The brute could not recall when he'd last eaten, or drank. He could not recall sleep, or even the slightest reminisce of any normal pattern.

Normality left when he was separated from Losa, brutal, harsh memories banished from his mind of what had unfolded later. Hurricane of Mexico followed instinct, he did not think, and he did not dare to feel.

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