No stranger to eating old, rotten, decaying food, Rais hadn't expected anything bad to come of eating the dead old moose he'd found half submerged in a pond. In hindsight, he should have, the thing had reeked something awful and it's hide was swollen with gas from decomposing in the summer sun. It had tasted bad, that he had expected, and his stomach felt pretty sour afterwards, but a sour stomach had never bothered him much. He had been working his way back up the mountainside when the simple sour stomach transformed into something fouler, churning a sickly rhythm at his insides.

He had started to second guess returning to the Pass, his old loner survival sense still keen. It wasn't wise to appear sick and weak around other predators, wolves included. Logically, he knew his packmates wouldn't -- shouldn't -- hurt him, but he trusted big ol' Crowe as far as he could throw the idiot. So he had nestled into a small cavern in the mountainside, a trail of his own vomit leading the way up. He had settled against the cold rock at the back of the cave, the mountain stone cooling his fevered skin. Too hot and to cold all at once, he was wracked with shivers and could only hope this wouldn't be the thing that finally ended his haphazard life.

At some point he had fallen asleep, and chaotic dreams of color and sound danced through his head. A woman had appeared at the mouth of his cave, her face narrow and limbs petite, almost vixen in form and draped from head to tail in shimmering silver hues. She had said something, beckoned him to follow and he did. Lurching out of the cave and down the mountain he had followed the ethereal wolf, calling out to her to stop though his lips couldn't quite form the words he wanted to say. Always she was just out of reach, dancing between the trees, but doggedly Rais kept on after her.