**The Tsimshian encampment sat atop a small island, surrounded by cliffs. The glaciers had once stretch up to its summit, but now they were decimated. There is now a single arch of ice connecting it to the larger land beyond it. Donnezani carefully ventured out across it, following the tracks of a particularly large elk. He whispered to himself as he stalked, praying to the spirits of the Wolf to defend, and the Gyrfalcon to watch, to the Bear to grant him strength, and the Fox for his cunning. He called the spirit of the Wolf to him.**The Wolf is never alone. His pack is always with him.
**Around him he could see ghostly visions of wolves, circling the elk with him. They harried their prey while Donnezani levelled his bow. As he loosed his arrow, the elk vanished. The wolves left him. Confused, he ran to recover his arrow. In the snow where it lay was a word, in blood, melting its way down to the permafrost:**
**There was a sound of small, distant bells on the air. Donnezani hurried back to camp. Staying out here would surely drive him mad.**