Sun Mote Copse It's going down, fade to Blackstreet

Shit shit shit shit shit, went Sullivan's brain as he skittered back the way he'd came.

Let's rewind.

Sullivan had been minding his own business, he swore it. He'd been strutting along, having a chat with the spirits (read: his imagination), marveling at the cedar trees that dotted the woods. Business as usual. There was nothing so great as walking through the woods. Spirits Rise was about the most barren landscape you could find, but there was a boreal forest not far from it, and that had been where the elders spent their time. Sully, too. He'd spent far too much time with the old farts, so his friends had sent him off with a bite mark in his bum. Now being among the trees made him think of home. His heart felt sick as he remembered old Nelly and her toothless gums. They'd felt so good on his ears when she groomed him. Mmmmrmrmrrr, he mentally purred.

It was at about this point in his tangential inner monologue that Sully took a deep breath in preparation for a nostalgic sigh and got a snoutful of wolf smell. Let's get one thing straight: Sully wasn't the brightest wolf, not by a long shot. Treading unaware right over a pack's borders while wrapped up in his own head was very characteristic of him. But Sully wasn't completely stupid, and so when he took a second whiff and his heart clenched with well-deserved fear, he spun around and skittered back the way he'd came, and didn't stop until he was about a hundred yards from where the scent was thickest.

There he drew up short, panting, and turned his head to look for any pursuers.