Greatwater Lake i will never believe in anything again

there was a portent brewing upon the horizon in the form of a charcoal plume.
it rose heavenward, and the skies had blotted out the wheeling birds.
mahler had followed the elk-paths down the mountainside, emptying at a lake. a great hunger had set into diaspora, and daily he hunted for the youngest among them. he himself ate what he could, even deigning for the last berries and worms that could be found within the cold earth.
there was a familiar scent here; mahler strode down to drink, form growing gaunt beneath his heavy pelt, and in silence regarded the always-poignant alarian.