and let me kick you off a bungee

And I have begun to haunt the Marsh like the ghosts that cling to the shadows, disturbed blue figures hunching over, curling up within themselves as they come to recognize the living - they do not hide, but do not enter my space either, hovering somewhere on the edge of my peripheral like hesitant children, all piled on top of one another, stumbling and tripping as they collide. I think they know I see them, that the cool spaces they create can be detected by my bared skin, caught standing out against brisk Orangemoon air with their disfigured features lingering over the surface of the water, as though they might be trying to catch their reflections in it. I look down at the frigid water near my hooves, as though somehow I'll catch a glimpse of something in the cold blue mass that swirls before me - all I see is blues, greens and purples swirling together and leaving me frustrated, because there is no indication of my reflection in the water, no hollow sockets gazing back at me from the depths as I'd hoped.

A ways away, my ears pick up the splashing of a body in the water, the silent slipping of a lost soul into the callous grasp of the Marsh - I turn my head in the direction of which it came, but I am not yet close enough to catch sight of what (or who) it was taking an unfortunate swim. I proceed forward, picking my way over tangled roots and gnarled branches, over the uneven path that twists and winds until I am finally seeing a cooling figure, almost wondering if it is a ghost with the way the typical reds of the living are draining, changing - I get closer still, intrigued as to why they so willingly waded through the water, kicking up a stench that made my nose wrinkle. It may not linger as much as it did when momma had lived here in her youth, but it certainly wasn't a pleasant smell when I did catch whiffs of it. She has offered stories of her youth, speaking wistfully of a time she longs for, when she belonged somewhere, had a purpose. I think that listening to her only made my heart ache more, and I left her to feel sappy and nostalgic, to melt through the seams of her shaky form and turn into a thick, sobbing mess at the center of a clearing.

I witness the persistence of the girl, watching her trudge through the slush with determination and foolishness oozes off of her small figure, taking the time to walk forward until I too was standing in the water. My body shudders at the touch of near freezing temperatures, sloshing my way closer with my brows twitching in annoyance. "It's not good to wander here alone," I tell her quietly, as if somehow I would change her mind about heading the way she was - towards it, the looming pillar that stirred with ancient power, with something breathtaking and terrifying, something that the kísértet dared not to interfere with, always edging close to the clearing but never entering the space. I have asked them why, but never receive an answer, it seems that I was never meant to speak to the dead - or they have all taken an oath of silence, or simply cannot communicate with the living at all. Probably the latter.