Bearclaw Valley hym

An overcast night saw the progress of one windswept and weary Stigmata. Some god or another toyed in the skies above him: turning a quiet drizzle on and off, on and off, with the erratic swishes of a loose-handled spigot. The loner trailed slowly over faint lines of sodden wolfprints, following them until a swelling of dawnlight had brought him both a reprieve from the rain and a desired end to the beckoning tracks.

He'd come to the gargantuan mouth of a vale, imprinted heavily by signs of the wolves that flourished here. Had he known of the young here, Stigmata would not have braved the attention of overprotective mothers -- he lacked the spirit of a gambler -- yet as things were, he was swaddled in kind ignorance. And as sunrise gave way to the invasive grey-breezes of morning, the wolf called low and sonorous into the hollow: baying for an audience.