Lion Head Mesa Covered in gold, forgetting my skin

The scents of Akashingo were unfamiliar to the sleeping figure, even in the rare moments when he would wake and look around. Nothing about the mesa was familiar, nothing about the wolves who arrived to see him, even the harsh tang of herbs filled his nose with uncertainty and worry. There were few moments when the rough scent of Germanicus would fill his head, make him dizzy, and spiral him back into a lengthy slumber. Those moments were so few and far between that Crowfeather did not know they were real.

When the dark wolf’s eyes opened, he looked at the orange stone in the mesa caverns. Every inch of him ached, throbbed with the pain of his injuries. The seer opened his mouth and tried to speak but he could not usher the words from his tongue. Crowfeather’s head swam, as though his mind had been dipped into a steaming bowl of stew. Dizziness overwhelmed him in the first attempt that he made to lift his torso from the earth.

Crowfeather yelped in surprise and crumpled back to his side, sucking air through his lips like he would never have another chance.

Where was Germanicus?