Golden Glade One summer day

Swift as a bird, from one forest to the next the dark wolf scurried. In his passing, the runaway had scented the pack aroma that had been mingled with the fur of the wolf who’d called himself Vein.

In that pale stranger’s kindness, there had been lingering temptation to pause at their border and seek answers to questions he didn’t know how to formulate. Instead of loitering there, the dark wolf had prowled outside of their claim for no more than a few hours before he vanished into the foliage.

The glade was peaceful, though.

With a weary glance to the north, Crowfeather sniffed at the breeze. His stomach lurched happily with the aroma of rabbit in the air. If he was fast enough, he could eat well. He entered a hunter’s stance and began to search for his target.