Lake Rodney shapeshift conductor for your spark

The lake feels like a dangerous place to be.

Cypress’ imaginings, deeply affected and twisted by the trauma of his youth, are graphic and disturbing. He dips his muzzle to the water, his intention to slake his thirst — but just before his maw makes contact with the glittering surface, he sees within his mind’s eye the violent clash of the neighboring packs — the open, staring eyes of the dead — the tarn turned crimson with fresh blood. His horrified gasp sucks a few stray droplets of moisture to the back of his throat and he chokes on them, backpedaling furiously as he coughs. It is then that he notices the island, a sprawling oak in the center and a vaguely wolf-shaped figure tangled within its gnarled roots. Cypress is not a particularly social wolf, and his first instinct is to leave — but then that macabre inclination to see the worst in everything rears its head again and convinces him that the silver smudge is a dead wolf and that the tree itself is the root [har har] of the problem.

Without much thought, he leaves the mainland behind and strikes out for the island, trying all the while to reassure himself that he’s swimming through water — not blood. If he can save the wolf — unlikely, says a bitter, venomous voice, given your stellar track record, — he will, but if he can’t…

…well, he still has to see it up close. Just to make sure it really is dead.

Panic spurs him on, making his swift legs swifter, and he clambers up the bank and roughly shakes out his pelt with a virulent shudder as he regards the wolf — who isn’t dead. He’s not sure whether he’s happy about that or not, honestly, because now he has to figure out what the hell to say to it. Him. The wolf smells like a male, a cub younger than Cypress himself, and the wild-furred eidolon stands around uncomfortably for a few moments before he clears his throat and speaks. “I thought you were — ” dead “ — in some kind of trouble,” is what comes out of his fool mouth. “You’re not — are you?”