Shadewood come in from the cold

Cailean had lived four Winters and never seen one quite this cold. He kept moving primarily to keep the chill from his bones, but even at a brisk walk he was unsuccessful in that endeavour. The cold came at him from every angle, making the air sting as it entered his lungs and unfurl in a thick plume as it emerged from dark lips. He had felt this cold only once before – when he had been less than two years old, and had been lost in a blizzard. He remembered the biting chill which had wrapped around a much younger and less powerful form. He remembered the feeling that it would always be there, gnawing at his very bones and making him forget what warmth was.

He remembered, too, coming out the other side of it a different wolf. A little less carefree – a little more serious. Cailean had been alone then, and he was alone now, but this was no swirling, rushing blizzard. This deep Winter which had hold of the lands was in it for the long haul. He could see it in the greying of the sky – that was why he had sought the relative shelter of the woods. For just a few moments, he wanted to forget the chill which seemed to permeate every fibre of him, and take solace in the strength of the oaks and elms.

He regarded a fallen limb with sombre eyes the colour of an unhappy ocean, taking extra care as he picked his way around it. Even then, with his mind intent on making his way safely through the towering trees, he was almost robbed of his footing.