The light brown wolf was sat in the shade of a tall, wiry aspen. He had been told that in spring, the whole grove would gleam golden with leaves. For now, bare branches only painted faint shadows against the overcast sky.

The druids were anxious, yet they still provided for his needs, offering him shelter and food. He returned the obligation as best as he could, but he often found himself at a loss what to do. And when he had no work ahead of him, it left him to ruminate on the events that brought him here.

He looked down at his long forelimbs. The snakebites had healed, only two faint marks where the fur had thinned. Larger were the scratches he had made with his own teeth in the throes of agony. He did not even remember gnawing his limbs, but he surely had. He did recall, however, that there had been two serpents waiting for him in the red rock shelter.

There should only have been one. One tested the limits of what a man could survive. There were legends of a great chief of chiefs who had survived two bites, though not at the same time.

Yet, someone had left two hungry vipers. Could it have been a mistake?

Had someone wanted him dead? They had not succeeded. Or perhaps they had: he was alive, yes, but somehow their power had drawn him far away from any life or home he had known. Was this a punishment from the gods? Or a betrayal by someone he knew? Both thoughts brought an unnatural chill to his spine.

While he ruminated, scratching aimlessly at the snow beneath him, he watched the sky for some sort of sign.