Near the stranger would Leroy lurk, patiently observing her unseasoned behaviour. Curious amber eyes flickered between the lit cigarette pressed amid her foreign lips, and the atypical pair of antlers located at the helm of the feline’s noggin. His scant system plugged up with interest, an intense desire to discover more about the strange individual overtaking his mindset.

Where could she possibly be from, if she gave off the classic tough-as-nails image, as many others before her did?

How many more cigarettes did she own, if she could recklessly discard one as if it was nothing?

What kind of kinky debauchery had her parents gotten into, if she could walk around looking like a fuck-up from Mother Nature?

The trespasser’s presence meant little to nothing to the male. So many lost souls passed by his humble swamp these days, but barely ever would they last. No matter how intriguing, no matter the amount of potential they’d show - people would show up, chill out for a good few days, and then ditch. For all he knew, the broad may be just another ditcher.

Nevertheless, the feline showed promise (in one way or another). The guardsman would audibly sigh, an effortless attempt to announce his presence.

"Excuse me, miss," the hound began, sporting a lukewarm expression whilst he approached, ”you shouldn’t toss your cancer sticks around these here parts. We got enough toxic sludge running rampant through our water, we don’t need no nicotine to make it addictive.”

A wet cough escaped his worn throat, accompanied by a sharp twinge stabbing at his midsection.

”However,” he continued in a facetious manner, ”maybe I need a reefer of my own to cool my nerves. Errr - what brings you to the swamp?” Certainly not a yearning for glory, that’s for sure.