Swiftcurrent Creek out of his heart will flow rivers of living water

He came upon a copse of harrowed trees with reaching shadows, but they did not look as ominous as he approached. There was a hearty layer of snow hanging in their boughs; a chill in the air that forecast more soon, which he would prefer to avoid. Although the teachings warned against dark forests, Python was unafraid. He was young—inexperienced when it came to the world outside of his tribe—but not as reliant on the stories of old, at least compared to the rest of them. The shadows were incongruous. They were not corporeal, not dangerous to someone with a sharp mind and attentive instincts. As he slunk towards the trees Python found his vague worries evaporating as bravado took over, and he only stopped when a burst of activity in the undergrowth startled him; he paused with a pointed look in the direction of the chaos, watching as a rabbit burst forth and careened away from him—but he did not give chase, only watched.