Shadow Mountain here's what I meant to say was how I'd prefer you, cruel, cold and grey

Hunger gnaws deep within the feline, nagging, relentless. It colors each movement; perpetually the stalker, the hunter. It is not a hunger of the flesh that plagues Mania, but a hunger of the soul, one born with the predator. It will die with them, too — but first, it will take many with it. They remember their last trip into this land so clearly, the sweet parting of golden fur and fragile flesh, the scent of a pup on that unfortunate wolf they'd felled in the west. Sometimes they think about the young one, about visiting. They never do. Instead, Mania's endless hunger has driven them into the mountains, searching for an easy meal. They do not expect it to come in the form of a sleeping wolf — an unimpressive blonde figure, a pale imitation of their first kill in these wilds. The nostalgia is enough to draw them in. Silent and predatory, Mania approaches with a practiced precision, drawing up from the rear of the sleeping wolf. A pause, and the hunter leans down to sniff at their quarry, a chillingly casual inspection meant to both rouse the wolf and inspire fear. Yet for all their grandeur, Mania remains tense, light on their feet, ready to spring into action at the first sign of movement. Wolves are dangerous, after all, and that is what makes the hunt so thrilling.