Bearclaw Valley Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.

"and you must accept it," merrick growled into the teeth of the wind. he meant to herd tuur against the lee side of a great oak standing sentinel at the edge of rivenstone, now sleeping beneath a blanket of thick snow. here the pair would be secured in some fashion from the wind and the ice in its teeth. "wait here," the bearwitch commanded, stepping back into the storm.
it was with half a frozen fish he returned, a paltry offering for a wolf half grown to yearling; but as it thawed it would lend at least some strength to the wasted frame. merrick tucked himself back against the wide bole, the single eye seeking tuur in silence for a moment. "accept he will not come back, and do it quickly. you must be harder than nostalgia."