Bearclaw Valley pack and forth

As night choked out its last navy breath and turned to a sparkly white dawn, Ico found himself pacing by a craggy column they called Silverstone, slowly prowling back and forth, back and forth, gazing at nothing but the ground.

The young lad had come to realise that the scent of blood had become the scent of the pack. Most days, he would spend his time exploring the sunlit crannies of Bearclaw Valley, collecting herbs for Evien, writing stories in his head, patrolling the borders, getting to know his packmates, slowly mastering moments of the hunt, and otherwise living a calm, kind life. The type of life that could last.

But more and more now, Ico was becoming savvy to sudden, bloody events taking place just over the hill, or past the river, or under the canopy. Events that he purposefully avoided. He wondered quite how many of these brawls could really be another Santiago Gabriel Arcos strutting purposefully into their ranks in search of a fight. He thought of Merrick's early words to him about violence and death. Had they been literal? What had Merrick's mother really been like? What was that altar actually for? And what of those disturbing rumours about the Bearberries' birth?

As his pacing continued, the youngster felt like his conscience was catching fire.