
One of those habits has pulled her from a late afternoon doze, hackles upright with alert, relaxing to realize the scope of the threat, and then snout curling as they tried to process--
"Ugh, Musk. What is that smell? It's....so....fetid." It wasn't just an odor of rotting vegetation. It wasn't just well-putrefied scavenger food. There was...something else about it that made Must, who prided herself on a tolerant nose, want to stuff it up with clay. She nudged her mate again.
"Come on. We need to figure out which one of them brought....whatever it is...back before they've all decided to roll in it."