What is wrong with me. Instead of a tug in his heart the wind seemed to howl with anger and rage and hurt, echoing through the empty spaces inside of him and whipping him into a frenzy. He was finished. Finished waiting. Finished running. Finished not being able to go home. Home. An aching in his chest, a void, loneliness. For a wolf raised in a bustling village with family always coming and going and surrounded by brothers and other young wolves the noise of nature was all too silent and it wore on him. Like a battlefield in his head, silent and haunting and eerie littered with the promise of something silent long and short coming.
He was not lost, for nuutuittuq was in the sky and yet he did not know where home was, if he would ever return. No. And he felt his paws on the ground and a snarl raging in his chest. He would reutrn. It was time, and though he felt no tug no sense, though he had no kill to make he would make it so. Stowing his pack away in a hollow he was determined as he ranged, stumbling upon a trail more through luck and probability than any skill.
Elk were too large for a single wolf to hunt along, and yet he had no patience to wait, no inclination to throw himself at anything smaller. He would find one, he would find one and kill it and offer its blood atop the mountain, and take the herbs his anaa had given him and then he would dream. He would dream and go home. An ache in his chest and he felt his heart pounding. So far away he could not hear the call of his sister's widow calling a hunt so he hunted alone, stalking the forest and following on the trail to a hunt that could only end in death and did not let his steps falter.
He was not lost, for nuutuittuq was in the sky and yet he did not know where home was, if he would ever return. No. And he felt his paws on the ground and a snarl raging in his chest. He would reutrn. It was time, and though he felt no tug no sense, though he had no kill to make he would make it so. Stowing his pack away in a hollow he was determined as he ranged, stumbling upon a trail more through luck and probability than any skill.
Elk were too large for a single wolf to hunt along, and yet he had no patience to wait, no inclination to throw himself at anything smaller. He would find one, he would find one and kill it and offer its blood atop the mountain, and take the herbs his anaa had given him and then he would dream. He would dream and go home. An ache in his chest and he felt his heart pounding. So far away he could not hear the call of his sister's widow calling a hunt so he hunted alone, stalking the forest and following on the trail to a hunt that could only end in death and did not let his steps falter.
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