Blackfeather Woods your wallet is on a permanent diet

Though the undergrowth shielded him from the wind, it did nothing to deafen the malicious whisper of it. Branches and leaves shuffled together in a sursurration that chafed at his nerves. They sounded like ill-begotten rumouring, like conspiracy -- and he the object of their cruel jokes.

He wondered if he was going insane but discarded the thought with a toss of his head. There were bigger things to worry about, such as his next meal. And the growling of his stomach was almost a comfort; he supposed that insane wolves didn't feel much hunger at all.

A figure ahead, barely visible in the dimness, gave him pause. He thought about remaining hidden, though he knew that his near-white fur did little for stealth, and that the scar on his face did even less.

The stranger smelt of blood. Alarm prickled through him, from his palms to his tail, but he could not move.