The Sentinels young as the morning; old as the sea

Autumn was the season of change. The bitter chill was swiftly descending down from the high craigs of the north, and with it came the miserable weather. Game animals, like the elk and deer, were returning from the windswept meadows to seek shelter beneath the boughs of the great forests once more, and they welcomed the creatures like old friends. 

Marcello was shadowing one such herd.

It was around this time of year that tensions ran high in many packs as wolves prepared for breeding season, and it just so happened that Marcello found himself in a position of rank coveted by one of the females Virgil had been courting. So, instead of allowing her to heckle him into a challenge (a battle the DiSarinno would have easily won), he'd chosen to reliquish his position and indulge his wanderlust at last.

So, naturally perhaps, the tawny brute found himself near unfamiliar territory with a groaning stomach and a mighty need for some company. 

He watched the deer as they, one by one, slipped into the shadows beneath the mighty boughs of the great pines. But he knew better than to cross the short distance between him and the edge of the woodland. That short distance was very plainly marked as no man's land. A scent on the wind; acrid, but slightly muted with a hint of sweetness. Those woods belonged to a sizeable pack, and he was not a gambling man. 

Marcello paced right three paces, then left two before switching his ears back and letting out a sonorous howl to the inhabitants of the mysterious forest.