Ouroboros Spine Where Dreams Went to Die

He stole through the fog, a lion on the prowl, his interest not on the trees that sheltered the island but on the scents beneath them. The brown bear had honed in on the deer, his keen nose and eyes deciphering the story of residency written in the gradient of freshness in their scat, in the trails worn bare from continued use, in the depression left by slumbering bodies. There were the bigger tracks of males, the smaller of females, and the smallest of fawns. If nothing else, the island supported a herd of deer, a valuable source of food that appeared to be contained, unlike other herds which may move in and out of a wolf's territory.

He had lost visual track of his packmates as he descended further, but worried not, for he knew he could track himself back and pick up their trail should he need, and he knew also they would not be so far that he could not hear a bark or howl. But the fog was beginning to lift, and his nose lifted from the ground as his fiery eyes caught glimpse of Iqniq and Tonravik between the stately trees. He quietly loped toward them, keeping his voice quiet as he reported his observations.

"There is a herd of deer living here," he shared. "They have worn trails, beds. I have picked up tracks of bucks, does and their young."