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Scandal kicked through the swamp, sullen and ill-at-ease. She hadn't been feeling very well lately, and she hadn't been able to fight - literally - that feeling away. It was a foreign sensation for a doe whose modus operandi was to stomp everything into submission.
Maybe all the fermented juices were catching up.
"Dammit," she muttered under her breath, splashing through the marsh. It had come with such delightful company too, the last time she'd imbibed. Heck, she hadn't had a drink in too long. If you can't beat them, join them.
Maybe she'd grab Milkthistle and go for another round. If you drank enough fermented juice, you wouldn't feel a thing no more.