Stone Circle When the birds fly high, and the squirrels burrow low

His paws were killing him. Or, his left back paw, anyway. The two fang marks had long since stopped bleeding, partly due to the swelling, but there wasn't much blood to begin with. 

He'd rested that night, after teaching the scaly fucker a lesson. He assumed he would wake up to mild pain, but it seemed more intense than it had been. The decision to keep going was made after much debate, but he knew if it got too bad, he'd be stuck, and if he was stuck, he couldn't hunt. So he needed to move, maybe find a pack that would generously have him until he recovered. Maybe a pack that could actually help him recover. 

He moved with a noticeable limp, careful to put pressure--of which his body offered plenty--onto the throbbing paw. He was tough, but this was the sort of pain felt deep within, the kind that traveled with each heartbeat. 

The howl was a welcome sound. Unexpected, and he did a double take at first. The air smelled faintly of others, but it wasn't fresh. 

But, whatever, he knew a direction now. 

As he moved closer, he stopped to offer a call of his own. He told himself it was to give whoever he was approaching a heads up, but he knew the real reason was the growing blackness along the edges of his vision, the increasing heaviness of his paws. He didn't think he would make it, and at this point, he would rather be found unconscious than left to bake in the sun. 

He'd never known snakebites to kill wolves, but then again, he'd only ever seen them treated shortly after, with the affected individual given the opportunity to rest in a cool environment. He hadn't been afforded the luxury.