Those hunger pains

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Returning from a long scout along the forest, the tan brute neared the heart of Neverwinter territory at press-paw speed. Amist the luscious scent wolf, a depressing - rather, empty - stale scent of caribou bones drifted through the autumn air and hit him like a spear. He had lost several pounds throughout the month, a dreary result from being preoccupied inside of his own head as his body silently screamed for nourishment. If the pack was to take on a long winter, they could not afford to lounge about in the crucial months of fall and not make yields to the abundance of food.

The year he had lived on his own, his body adjusted to the unsatisfying, undernutritious tastes of smaller animals; mainly a diet of fish, but ever so lucky a catch for a wolf his towering size would hold mouthfuls of rabbit. Of all his hunting experience, he had never actually been able to take down a caribou, but the juicy meat he had stolen from scavenging coyotes or a immature grizzly sufficed nicely. If he had managed to fetch twenty fish, the time and effort spent would be in vain.

Orcale situated his large cranium towards the sky and took in a deep, crisp breath of air to let out a low-pitched rally howl. He called a good five minutes, seeing who all would show up. On his long treks he had seen a small herd of caribou move through the outermost spots of the territory, a rare and early spectacle for caribou; nevertheless, a prime opportunity for the pack. He planned to take a small group out to find and track these big creatures and bring back a nice caché by nightfall.

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