The Lightning Strike

It was wrong. Everything was wrong. The night was painted in orange, and a storm brewed upon the distance, he could see, but nothing felt right in his bones. Kingumut was no naturalist but he was a hunter and the Tartok knew how prey moved, how and where to find them when they took shelter from an impending storm. Despite his searches the hunter came up entirely empty handed. Gone. All of them were gone. The earth was silent. No birds, no breathing, no click of joints, nothing that indicated that there was presence in the Spine aside from the wolves' own . Kingumut was unsettled in a way that he'd never been before. He could not claim in any of his three years of life had the land ever been so absent, so hushed. The guard hairs of ash along his spine bristled, showing his unease in the physical tension that coiled tightly within his stalwart body. For a few moments he was lost in the repetitive motion of pacing, eyes of mahogany red staring at the darkened horizon, unflinching when the lighting struck down like a mighty force in the distance, his tail flicking behind him with unbidden discomfort. All wrong. The Tartok thought again, before his pacing ceased, head lifting as ears thrust forth atop his skull when Tonravik's howl broke through the too still air. 

To the ebony Alpha the Hunter went, heeding her call. The wind was not gentle as it pushed against him, but the hunter moved as quick as he could. He came upon her and two others, one he recognized and one that he did not. Knowing of names or not did not matter. Something was happening, and whether his assessment was correct or not, Kingumut knew that Tonravik and Tartok's future nestled snugly in her womb would be his top priority.