Lion Head Mesa Krýo

Midday had arrived. The overcast had created an illusion of frozen time, leaving the skies painted in grey no matter the hour. From sunup to the time it set, the heavens remained colorless. Winds chased across the mesa, biting with a chilly force.

Arsenio could feel that his pelt was not thick enough for the shift in temperature. His nose had run since the late hours of the night before, dribbling down into his whiskers. He’d taken to licking obsessively until he felt he would not sputter all over himself. There was a cold ache in the Greek man’s broad shoulders – a sign of battles fought, and injuries forgotten.

Prowling from the caverns, Arsenio searched for one of the healing wolves. Perhaps they could give him something to ease the shift in weather.