The air was incredibly still in the chill of the season. Mawgwa was no seer, at least in comparison to his closest friend Baba, but even he could feel that Winter was coming quickly this year, and it was going to be a cold one. The route from Thistledown to Shaleburrow is heavily traveled from the Spring thaw through late Summer and into Fall, but tonight was a quiet night. Even the crickets were chirping slowly. Evidently Mawgwa wasn’t the only one who could feel the chill of the air in his bones.<br/><br/>The Patrol had walked what seemed for miles that day, and had only seen a handful of other mice during the day. They were making the trek from Shaleburrow to Thistledown to make a delivery of various wines and ales for the Morten-Harvest celebration, now just another day away. In fact, the celebration was the reason Mawgwa was even out chancing the cold. The others were tucked away safely in a rocky burrow that had been built by the Guard in the Spring, and maintained as a resting post through the warm season.<br/><br/>Morten-Harvest is the greatest of all the festivals held in the Territories throughout the year. It’s common for close friends to exchange gifts at some point during the week-long celebration, and Mawgwa wanted to find something both for Baba, as well as another friend in Shaleburrow, a tavern keeper named Navin. Mawgwa was inordinately pleased that Baba had managed to bring the Patrol around Shaleburrow during Morten-Harvest, surely the best place to be for the festival.<br/><br/>Still, that meant that he had to find gifts for his friends, and Mawgwa was always short of money. As a result, he was about to enter the woods alone on a cold night. From the lip of the burrow he crossed the path and headed up a softly inclined embankment looking for a specific plant. The plan was that he’d find what he was foraging for, harvest it, and be back at the burrow before sunrise. Ideally the Patrol would still be asleep and not even noticed that he had been gone during the night. Of course, when Mawgwa was involved plans were proved essentially obsolete from the off.<br/><br/>It took him four hours of exploring in the dark just to find the plant he was looking for: wild hops. It had been picked; harvested already by the Shaleburrow harvesters, or something bigger and hungrier. Mawgwa lay low for a few moments to assure himself he was alone, and then trekked on. Another bush picked, and then another. It was getting too late. All the vines had been harvested. Then, finally, Mawgwa came upon a gloriously unfettered bush of wild hops growing up the trunk of an old spruce. Feeling pleased with himself he did a little dance while he tugged a few of the strobili off the vine and tied the stems through the links of his holy chains.<br/><br/>Now there was just getting back to the—POW!<br/><br/>Mawgwa was slammed in the body and tossed into the air, rolling a few times on the landing until he was able to overcome his momentum. He found himself looking up at the business end of a fox on the hunt, ready to bat the poor mouse into submission again. Suitably horrified, Mawgwa let out a shrill scream and thrust his fist up as hard as he could. The steel connected with the hard jaw of the fox, buying him just enough time to make a run for it.<br/><br/>Mawgwa was running as fast and hard as his little legs could carry him, under crunchy fallen leaves, over and under the sprawling roots of a tree, between crevices in the rocks. The fox followed in chase, panting hot breath as he ran that Mawgwa could feel down his back. Without even thinking about it Mawgwa jumped into a thorny bush, defensive amongst the brambles. He was dinged-up and scraped, bleeding a little, but he was still alive; and he still had his hops, damn it.<br/><br/>His breath was fast and deep as he watched the fox’s every move trying to get under the bush and through the brambles. Mawgwa hopped around and dodged a few swats as the fox became frustrated. “It’s all right, mate,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll find someone else to have for dinner.”<br/><br/>The fox went illusive, deciding play a waiting game. Eventually the mouse would have to leave the thorny bush. Mawgwa stilled once more, licking his wounds. He closed his eyes, listening. Water. Running water. A stream! He knew the water spirit would look after him. He perked up in the bush. There was no sign of the fox, but certainly he was still around. He decided to make a dash for it; he would run as fast and hard as he could towards the sound of the water.<br/><br/>As soon as Mawgwa bolted out of the bush the fox again gave chase. The mouse was screaming like a banshee as he ran over the forest floor, leaping aimlessly when he came to a high embankment. He landed in a very cold stream. The fox didn’t follow, simply glaring at him from the embankment as the mouse flowed away downstream.<br/><br/>Now Mawgwa found himself fighting with the current, the cold, and his own density. He struggled against the stream to keep his head above water, buoyed by the strobili, helpless to go anywhere but where the stream flowed, which was suddenly over a small waterfall…in the dark. Eventually the poor mouse made it to the bank and climbed out exhausted. Immediately he fell asleep.<br/><br/>A sharp jab of a staff in his back woke him up. He rolled over into blinding sunlight and happy warmth. Slowly the fuzzy silhouette of Baba focused above him. “What the hell are you doin’ out here, then?” the oldfur asked incredulously. “We’ve got a long hike today and you’re still sleepin’ out here in the open. You need constant supervision, you know that? Get your arse up and let’s go.”<br/><br/>Mawgwa groaned...a smile slowly coming across his face.