Winter was not kind to him, nor to his people. They were not suited for it. Yet here he was, having roamed far from the shrine of his birth and choosing instead to align himself with savages. He knew he could not go back to the summerland of his birth but lately, with the turning of the season in to something more frigid and desperate than Python had experienced before, he found himself thinking of the stacked stones, deep canyons, and arid plains with some fondness. Since his arrival to these strange lands the boy had kept to himself; he'd chosen to serve these people as a hunter, and spent many hours ratting in the wood, unphased by the darkness of the overcast sky. He refused to be affected by the age old superstitions of his forefathers, and tread boldly among the trees and their darkness — even now, with the sky having turned dark as slate and the shadows blacker still, he lurked among them with a fat creature hanging from his teeth.
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