Blackfoot Forest lance of the falling moon

his brother nursed his wounds, and the attalus reluctantly turned his attention to their ugliness. to look upon his brother's crusted fur and angry bruisings was to relive the horror they had only just barely escaped -- while never a squeamish man, venextos preferred to not to give life to such repressed memories by glancing at the serrated wounds. wounds that had the strange reality to remind him the past was all too inescapably real.

yet the attalus knew his brother was strong -- stronger than most -- and the strong survived.

he did not gaze long before garait's eyes found him: venextos knew the simple words his brother conveyed - all in the intensity of his somber visage. with a gentle trail of his nose against his brother's fur that rejoined his brother's silent incantation, venextos stepped into the open.

for a moment the pale wolf was still, as if admiring the enormity of the backdrop of sawtooth ranges and clustered, snowfallen pines. in truth he was assessing the winds for any dangers, like the tribe that had razed their family and turned their lives inexorably upside down.