There was great depression falling over the Smoked male these days and finidng himself with no purpose he was simply following his feet. His pack was disbanded and a shadow cast across all the valley threatening to swallow it whole and once again Smoke had found himself caught in a nightmare. A famine. He could see what had happened but he kept his peace for fear of meeting a more superstisious wolf, it had come down, sweeping from his homeland. He had hoped to out run it but no such luck and this left his heart with an even heavier feeling, now he knew by now his family must be dead.

There were sounds here and there of prey crossing the valley, but without a pack Smoke was too weak and slow to catch it. Occasionaly a mouse or rabbit would rear it's head and this was what was keeping him alive. Looking up and around him all he could see was flat lands, neverending flat lands that felt like they expanded with every step he took. Panting he gave up and collapsed on the floor sighing outwardly. Yet not from lack of strength, more from lack of will. What was the point? For the first time in his life, Smoke wished he had died in the famine back home, at least the he could have been with family. Now he was miles from home in a strnage land surrounded by strange wolves.