Bearclaw Valley In dewy heads of the young, nothing will fail

Sven had hunted for days. He had fought hard and strong to gather the 4 brace of ducks he now carried to teh borders of Bearclaw. But their scent markers were stale. His ears found their way to his skull and he looked about worried and scared. 

He lay the ducks to the ground and lifted his nose to send out a small questioning howl. Was all okay in the valley? Did he need to tell his brothers? Oh heavens. 

He felt as if the Valley itself was falling sick and dead. So many packs were losing their numbers. He weaved his tail against his hocks and he waited and he hoped that someone would greet him. Because if not. Would his pack be next to be lost.