Brammelwurz and the Injured White Wolf

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Sometimes, when the wind blew from the direction where the maps no longer bore names, Brammelwurz became restless. Then the spores in his pitcher trembled, as if they heard voices no one else could hear. It was at such an hour—when the morning had not yet decided to become day—that the old gnome set out. Without a destination, only a vague suspicion: Something was waiting. Something was calling. The path led him through icy moors, beneath silent skies whose light shimmered like faded parchment. No animals, no birdcalls, only the crackle of his footsteps on the frozen grass. Brammelwurz knew the silence of the land. But this silence was different. Heavier. More expectant. Around midday, he came to a depression between mossy hills. The fog hung lower there, and something bright and unreal glowed within him. Brammelwurz narrowed his eyes – and saw him. A wolf. Large. White. And injured. It lay beneath a leaning birch tree, its fur smeared with blood, its breathing shallow. One foreleg was twisted, and a wound gaped on its flank, life slowly draining from it. Brammelwurz approached, holding his breath. His hand went to the jar, searching for a drop of sporelight that could heal. "I am no enemy," he said softly. The wolf raised its head, looked at him – a gaze so deep that it contained forests, moons, and memories. No growl. No resistance. Only exhaustion. And trust. Brammelwurz knelt carefully. He soaked a piece of moss with the tincture from the jar and placed it on the wound. The wolf twitched, but remained still. Time seemed to flow like warm honey, slow and languid, while the gnome bandaged, cleaned, whispered. No big words, just small syllables, the kind whispered to children when night draws too close. Hours passed. The light grew paler, the fog thicker. Brammelwurz lit a fire of dry wood that gave little warmth, but comfort. The wolf lay still, but his eyes rested on the gnome—not out of mistrust, but out of something deeper. Perhaps gratitude. Perhaps simply recognition. That night, Brammelwurz told a story. Of a circle of spores that once healed a lost dream. Of a bridge made of memory. He didn't know if the wolf understood—or if he himself understood what he was saying. But it felt right. As dawn broke, Brammelwurz awoke alone. The camp was untouched, the snow freshly fallen. No sign. No paw. Only a single, long, white hair on his shoulder, shimmering slightly. A new spore had grown in his jar. Round, glowing, with a line in it that resembled a star that had settled. Brammelwurz closed the jar, pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and smiled softly. "Not every healing is for the one who heals," he murmured. And then he walked on without turning back.