Shadewood Those of the frost moon, he awaits with bated breath

A poorly-lit moon struggled to be seen. Clouds like brushstrokes of mauve clustered around the distant rock; great mounds and puffs of godsmoke sweeping endlessly on as the chilly spring zephyrs gave chase. Darcia, a carnivorous deity in his own right, watched the sky's motions from a clearing stooped in a deep quiet. So near the ocean, it was still too cold here for the crickets to play above ground. The wolf didn't miss their songs; he had enough on his mind without the drone of their sharp tunes. Though mainly his attentions revolved around a singularly pressing thought: it would only get warmer in the weeks to come.

The swain was far more active in the winter. He had an easier time surviving the cold than most—bred for the winters of a sea-mountain as he was—but that left him vulnerable another way. Heat he could not tolerate, and it was the summer months that he dreaded most. It was for these upcoming times he thought he must prepare.