The day started like every other. Garran awoke to the morning mountain sun beaming in through the small window. The warm rays caressed his face and gently raised him from his slumber. He blinked up at the bark-covered ceiling of his hut and stretched.

He arose from his bed and rearranged the fur covers so they were tidy. The white and black bedspread had been a gift from his mother. When he had come of age and decided to build his hut near the outskirts of their village, she had toiled endlessly to craft it. It was a finely-sewn mink and fox fur coverlet. The black mink fur and white snow fox fur alternated in a checked pattern lining the entire blanket. The soft, inner lining of the blanket was made of well-tanned elk hide. He had to hand it to his maka - she had outdone herself on the craftsmanship of it. He had never been cold since she had given it to him.

His hut was similar to most of the other dwellings within the tribe; the main difference being that this particular hut had been built by Garran’s own two hands. It was simple, but well-built. The inside was lined with strips of bark, and the outside was packed with mud, snow and ice. Hay and pine needles were packed firmly between the snow and bark layers for insulation. Inside, the dwelling was small but there was still plenty of living space. He did not need much room. It was just a dwelling, after all.

With his pack, logic and practicality always dominated any ideals of nostalgia or luxury that he or his people might encounter. His mother and father had always focused on necessity and simplicity, rather than luxury. So too, had Garran. He learned as a pup to only carry what he needed. Holding on to unnecessary things only weighed a wolf down in the end.

Garran grabbed a piece of salted jerky from a small cupboard, stuffed it in his mouth, and headed over to a small table to get his things. He quickly and efficiently donned his leather jerkin, his hand brushing over the crudely stitched patchwork his friend had done so long ago when he had saved Garran’s life.

I really should get that patched by a leatherworker, he thought to himself as he grabbed his mace and shield and turned to go. Chewing the rest of his salty breakfast, he grabbed a few more strips of the jerky, his water tin, and his satchel. Perhaps he and Sius could go down to the river and fish for salmon for a few days now that Sius should be back from his hunting trip. As an afterthought, Garran rolled up his maka’s fur blanket and strapped it to his pack.

“Just in case,” Garran said to no one in particular.

Garran headed down the worn, icy path towards Sius’ hut. The forever snow-covered pines swayed gently in the arctic winds. A recent freak storm had covered most of the trail, but Garran didn’t need it. He had made this venture many times, and knew it like the back of fur-covered hands.

As he approached Sius’ hut, Garran expected to see his companion milling about outside. The snow hut was quiet and there was no smoke from the fireplace. No one had been here this morning. Hmmm. He should have been back today, Garran thought to himself.

He walked up to the door of the empty hut, listened for a moment, then walked inside. Sius’ tidy house was in order; nothing seemed out of place. The bed was untouched and the few dishes on the counter were stacked and neatly cleaned. And from the looks of it, the fire hadn’t been lit in several days. It was clear that no one had been here for some time.

It wasn’t unheard of for his friend to stay out a day or so longer from a trip. Especially since zeshova--what the Darkfrosts referred to as ‘the cold blanket’, or ‘winter’ in the common tongue-- was coming fast and the tribe would need to stock up on food and stores as much as possible. Still, Garran would check in at the village and see if there was any word of Sius’ return.

Garran walked to the center of the village where several of his kin loitered. There were kiosks with a few wolfkin selling some crafted items. Anything from small trinkets to blankets, weapons and a finite selection of armor.

Garran scanned the group, but did not see his friend. He continued on and inquired with a few of his kinsmen about Sius’ whereabouts, but each of them gave the same answer. They had not seen him for several days.

Garran’s stomach churned uneasily. Though he could not explain why, he had a growing suspicion creeping into the back of his mind that something was not right. It was unorthodox for Sius to not leave word or not check in. Decisively, Garran turned towards the opposite end of square and headed towards his friend’s favorite game trail. In all likelihood, he would run into Sius on his way to find him along the trail. Everything would be fine.

Garran walked for a while, keeping an eye out for signs of disturbances in the snow. He found a few small tracks: fox, rabbit, and even a coyote print. But no wolfkin. The frequent snows typically covered tracks on this trail rather quickly. Only the most skilled trackers and hunters of the tribe used this hunting path.

Garran had been on it many times in the last few years. He knew every crevice and hideaway. Many animals of prey used this trail, as it led to an open spring. This small lake was connected to a series of hot springs, and the thermal activity was the only thing during the zeshova months that kept the water from staying permanently frozen. For this reason, this was a major water source that fed into the area. Whatmore, it was the only major water source within a few miles of his village. If Sius was holed up anywhere, it would be near there.

As he was walking, something on the ground caught his eye. Something long and slender poking out of the blanket of white. He walked over to it and leaned down, inspecting the item. It was the broken shaft of an arrow. And not just any arrow; Sius’.

Garran would recognize the craftsmanship anywhere. The arrow was broken mid-shaft, but the feathers were still glued tight to the end. Sius preferred quail or goshawk feathers on his arrows. He always said that the smaller feathers made the arrows fly more accurately. And, given Sius’ gift with the bow, Garran was not inclined to argue with that logic.

The tell-tale sign that this was his friend’s arrow , however, was the tiny bit of string knotted just below the feathers. Garran knew this to be true for two reasons. Firstly, it was something Sius did as a “signature” for the arrow. It did nothing for flight or accuracy. It was simply to claim it as his own. This would make his kills distinguishable from other hunters.

The second reason Garran knew it was Sius’ arrow was because that very same string was used to stitch up the hole in Garran’s jerkin. It was Sius’ own creation that he spun himself from animal fur from his kills. “Waste not,” he would always say.

Garran inspected the shaft a bit closer and saw that there was a blood stain on the jagged wood on the broken end. He sniffed it briefly, inhaling the coppery scent. It wasn’t wolfkin. It smelled like it was from a large predatory animal, like a bear. So this was Sius’ arrow, but where was Sius? Better yet, where was the bear?

Garran looked around the area for signs of his friend. After some time, he did find a faint trail of blood from the injured bear. Bears were notoriously hard to track even if they were injured, their thick hide and long fur the perfect sponges for any blood seeping from a wound.

About forty yards farther down the path in a small clearing, Garran saw something that made his blood run cold. His heart began pounding in his throat as he tried to calm the fear swelling up inside him. He approached the clearing with reckless abandon and stopped short as he approached what he had seen.

Sius’ bow lay abandoned in the snow, the etchings and intricate carvings in the handcrafted limbs caked over with frost and ice. His leather quiver was under a nearby tree, its contents littering the forest floor; a dozen or so arrows scattered on the ground near the pine. Garran looked around frantically, surveying the scene.

“Sius?” he said, in a hushed tone. He could hear the panic in his own voice. He inspected the ground and noticed several sets of footprints in this area, the cusps of trees likely keeping the snow from accumulating here. Garran saw the large canine footprints of the bipedal wolfkin. “Sius,” Garran whispered.

There were also several other footprints as well. These were boot prints. It looked as though there were three sets of similar sizes, but each gait was different and distinguishable. There had definitely been a skuffle. Spatters of red blood stark against the white snow, and the ground had been disturbed in several areas as if someone had been pushed and held down forcefully.

Garran followed the wolf-like footprints and tracked them to the opposite edge of the clearing. It was here that Garran noted with a sickening revelation that the wolfkin tracks of his friend stopped, but the three sets of boot prints continued on into the forest.

“Sius?!” Garran shouted now. His ears were ringing from the deafening sound of his heart pounding in his head. Dropping to his knees, he kept calling his now-gone friend whom he had failed. His friend who had saved his life three years ago and had needed him.

“Siiiiiuuuuuuussssss!” Garran shouted a final time. The cry started out as his friend’s name, but ended in the baying, mournful howl of a feral, angry wolfkin.