She awoke with her fur dusted in snow. The last she recalled, the sky had been consumed by dark clouds and warning rumbles of the gods. A brilliant bolt of lightning had torn through the sky.

There was only silence here, and the cold bite of winter. She stood, testing dark limbs; they felt whole and undamaged. She could not remember if they had looked like this before, or if the weight of her own fur was familiar. But her belly snarled with hunger, and she put such questions from her mind.

***

The first soul she sent across the sea belonged to a rooster. He hadn’t had time to use his spurs. Red blood dripped onto the white snow that filled the crumbling remains of the coop. The hens scattered with frantic clucks, and grew silent.

Consumed by her meal, she did not hear footsteps crunching in snow.

Cold embraced the red taste of iron, leaving it heavy in the snowladen air.

Rivers followed, chewing the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. Up to the farmhouse, past the lopsided barn, where a coop you had to pity the poor birds that lived in sank under deep white.

And crimson. Some dark beast hunched over its victory, putting him to mind of every superstition folks ever had about the ravaging wolf.

Rivers smiled in a roguish, lopsided manner. They hadn't noticed company. Maybe they were new to this. Or just very, very hungry.

Hen would've tasted better. He mused amicably by way of announcement.

She looked up with a start, bristling and red eyes gleaming. She had been incautious. Careless. The scent of the fowl had masked his approach.

When she saw that he wasn’t about to seize her meal from her, her senses returned to her. The fur on her back lay flat, though she was careful not to let her focus drift from him. He was handsome, this much she could see. Stranger was the item he carried in his jaws. A pipe.

“Catch one yourself, then,” she snorted before gripping a leg between her jaws. She pulled it free with a pop. If she noticed the gristly mess she was making, sticky blood and feathers smeared on her snout, she didn’t seem to care. As intent as she seemed on her food, there was still a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes.

“What good’s a pipe to a wolf?” she asked between mouthfuls.

Skill - Orator 1/5

Rivers kept his posture loose and shrugged, more amused than threatened. Terrible manners, this one. But no obvious reason to take it personal. His smile turned upward with cheerful teasing. I might, if I thought I'd get to keep her. As it is, would be scared for me dear life when it turns out that rooster's not enough for you.

As to the other question... He rolled the dudeen to the other side of his mouth. And well, Pipe's no good to a wolf. But I'm sentimental. So it's plenty good for me.

Blue eyes glanced over her again. Rivers leaned back on his haunches. You're new around here, I'll wager?

Corvi huffed to herself. Yes, perhaps he was right to be afraid of what she might do. Though the words were spoken in jest, they tugged at something lodged in her chest. She stopped eating, then, to look at him more closely. (There was little left of the bird by this point, anyways.)

You win that one, Corvi said with a frown. It wasn’t as if she could deny otherwise. I am a stranger to this land. I take it that you aren’t. Meanwhile, she had just finished devouring what could well be a chicken he’d staked claim on. No, these birds were too thin and stringy to belong to anyone; the crumbling walls of the coop were barely standing. No one had cared for them—or this place—in a long time. Licking the drying blood from her muzzle, she stood and carefully gathered the remains of the bird to bury in the snow just outside. A gift for the house-spirit of this farm. If carrying a pipe was sentiment, let this be sentiment too.

I will catch you a hen if you tell me about this place, she told the stranger when she returned. Already, she cast her gaze beyond him to the snows outside. The hens would’ve taken shelter in the brush overtaking the nearby orchard. First, though, she waited to see if he’d agree to this deal.

Skill - Orator 2/5

He grinned back at her concession of victory as if to say, Of course I did.

Then laughed, a clear ringing sound over the snowbanks. Aha! Sorry to say, I'm only a tourist. I can give ye the short of it, but not the long.

Riverdark eyes turned skyward. Welcome to Mythris. Folks wander in from all over. Different times. Different places. Fae and gods and men and wolves. Legionaries and Celts. Witches. Wyrms. A real motley crew, in his estimation.

Couldn't say why. It's a finicky spell. Has a mind of its own, I think. Some found salvation here and others ruin. But fate seemed to be work of their own wills, not some predetermined force playing chess with wayward souls.

A paw lifted up to brace the pipe, thoughtful. But the land's right angry, these days. Hence the oppressive dark and all that. Trying to choke wolves out, for fear we'll grow too many and too hungry, and start takin' more from the land than its roosters. He winked.

Whatever brought them, and whatever wanted them gone, were not in alignment. He sensed a wider battle of wills at play. He forewent open speculation in favor of a warning, And there's flames dotted about, guiding in lost souls from the cold. Putting notions in their heads. Be mindful of the smoke.

Then stood, offering a wag and apparent intent to follow into the brush, I'll share a hen with you, if that suits. Half an answer for half a bird, eh?

A spell. This made sense, though it made Corvi nearly shiver to think who could have the power to do this. It had to be an act of the gods, surely. But what the man described—the unnatural, choking snows—did not sound like an act of light.

No, she could only think of one being with the power to do this. The fires, whatever their purpose, surely were Her work as well. She resolved to give them a wide berth.

It is the work of the Deathless Mother, Corvi concluded with a shudder she could not suppress this time. Thank you for the warning.

The strange wolf seemed remarkably unconcerned. Corvi could respect that. After all, all mortals were fated to die, sooner or later. Only in death could one join their ancestors across the sea. At his offer, she flashed a toothy grin.

Very well, she agreed. If we should both fall today, we will not go out on an empty stomach.

With that, she turned away to search for where the hens had taken roost.

She returned not long later with one trapped in her jaws. Two had gotten away from her, taking shelter in the branches, but this one had been too slow. Two successful hunts. What a name she’d make for herself. Chicken-stealer. Ha! She ripped the carcass in half, tossing the larger part to the stranger.

I am Corvi of Somovo, she said, realizing she had yet to introduce herself. What do you call yourself?

Skill - Orator 3/5

He inclined his head at her gratitude, something sharp and weighted in the gesture. A mortal form had far fewer ways of obligating another to settle their debts. But being told, essentially, that he'd overpaid for his half of a plump supper and might expect more reward from her later still sent a bit of mischievous glee throbbing down to his core.

Don't know your Deathless Mother, but if she's behind it all, I'd have a few cross words for her. Rivers hummed. Having only just arrived, he really preferred the world didn't end tomorrow, or even the day after. Still. For him, there was an easy confidence in escape from permanent consequence. He'd return to the Daoine Sidhe, wouldn't he?

And though he cared about men and wolves, more dearly than most of his kith, he was accustomed after millennia to their more transient natures.

But hell if this one wasn't more transient than most! He'd intended to follow on the hunt. Was rather caught off guard by how quickly she vanished into frostbit woodland. Two and a half circles in place, and he decided maybe her debt was best repaid by saving him the trouble of chasing down dinner in tandem.

So, content, he plopped a pale rump back into the snow and waited.

Didn't take too long. Rivers snatched his half midair, forced to drop his pipe to achieve that little touch of showing off, but chuffed with himself for accomplishing it nonetheless.

Set then upon the work of defeathering, he only looked up at the provision of a name. Grinned. Rivers. Not his first name, his original. But his favourite, at the present moment. Just a simple hillfolk. But pleased to meet you, Corvi of Somovo.

Head tilted, What's home like for you, then? Your Deathless Mother the meddling type, there, too?

Corvi tried and failed to suppress another shiver. The Deathless Mother’s touch was all over this place—in the darkened sky, in the cold, in the snow that clung to her fur. How could she have not seen it before? But then, she had never been blessed with a priestess’s power. She was grounded in only that which she could she and smell and hear and touch. If she had been able to work spells as her mother had, perhaps she wouldn’t be here at all.

Despite everything, something in the blonde wolf’s manner set her at ease. He was charming and friendly, and so far had only helped her. She grinned at him when he caught his portion. Something about him made her wonder if he really was just a simple hillfolk, as he said, but for now she kept that to herself. Everyone had their secrets, after all, and Corvi felt no need to pry.

Nicely done, she said before digging into her meal. One skinny rooster hadn’t been enough for her, that much was apparent, but she devoured the hen with slightly more decorum.And you as well, Rivers.

She paused and licked her lips at his question.

Somovo is a small village, she answered with shrug. Once, we were more, but each harvest is worse than the last. Many already left. I hunt for those of us who remain.

The Deathless Mother’s power is greatest in winter. Usually she waits for the desperate and hungry to approach her. Oh, she’ll help you, Corvi said bitterly. But you’ll wish she hadn’t.

She spat out a small bone on the snow nearby in disgust.

What about these hillfolk of yours? Your spirits are more…friendly?