Mud Monsters and Pack ghosts

She smiled lightly, tail brushing over the earth as Mortis prepared to sing. It was a little subdued at first, but he soon grew louder, his lone voice ringing out above the crackling flames, above the night sounds that lay outside the campfire. Her ears twitched, and she was soon closing her eyes in kind as the song carried on. He had a lovely voice, really. There was something pleasant or unique, she could find, in most every wolf's singing voice. Pia had told her, once, that it was one of the oldest art forms of their kind. Sitting here by the warmth of the flames, Mort weaving a tale through the tune, it wasn't hard to see why.