Redhawk Caldera Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

Though his mother's call had not been for him, the urgent quality of her voice begged Whip to follow. The acrid scent of blood wafted thickly in the breeze. Once he caught the scent, Whip's pace picked up. He could not discern the difference the blood of his father or any other -- the nuance was lost on him. Nor did he believe he had any reason to worry. The adults must have simply felled a meal... and mom was just ringing the dinner bell.

When the boy finally arrived, stopping only a few meter from his mother, he saw that this was not the case. His father, their protector, lay torn and tattered -- a bloody mess. To see the only wolf he trusted with his safety so broken, it affected Whip in a peculiar way. He felt nothing; no sudden rise of fear in his gut, nor some lingering worry. He simply stared downward at his father's weakened form in silence and shock.