It all began with a leaf.
Upon a dusty branch, a shrivelled leaf rattled in the barest of breezes. Caldwell stared before moving on away from his home; even this hawthorn that had looked over his tribe for decades couldn't withstand the drought that ravaged Goldsea. It had snuck up upon the village like a fever; at first, it was bearable, but as the heat continued to blare even the most resilient of saplings died in their fields. Wells began to dry, caves filled with water were soon depleted, till they had to ration. Blood was used to quench thirst rather than waste precious water upon their own immortal bodies, but it could hardly appease them with how thick and dehydrated even the kill was.
The drought was an inescapable hell for starving, thirsty wolves, with their only hope to move on from this cursed land. Unfortunately, whilst the odd visitor, traveller or trader was welcome in other lands, the mass influx of refugees would cause strain upon the other lands' resources. Icerun was the first to close its borders to any who did not have a permit issued. Then their neighbour, Murkwood began to patrol and fight off any "invader" to their lands, only the strong were allowed to be accepted into their clans. Those who sought shelter in the forgotten fogs of Mistvale were never heard from again.
Funnily, it was the selfish, greedy Darkspinian Royals that had yet to retaliate to Goldsea's stream of refugees, the richest of the territories in both resource and land. Rumours had it that those who crossed were made to work in the many mines of Darkspine, forced to make the rich richer or worse... sacrifices to the fae that lived in every crevice of Darkspine. But between the never-ending gnaw that pushed one's personality and morals from mind, the chance that the rumours were just rumours dashed any sense of danger from Caldwell's mind.
Despite the warnings of his home, Caldwell made the journey to Darkspine crunching the dry leaves of Goldsea underneath. The forest loomed before him, hardly welcoming, but the smell of life and moisture drew him forward. He slipped away into the darkness, the spiny, needle leaves of pine scraping along his golden flank and closing the way behind him shut.
Oh, how could Caldwell predict that even the tufts of his Goldsea fur would be changed, let alone his fate.