Whitebark Stream Whose weapon is his word,

There was much turmoil within Whitebark Stream. Loss after loss, Artyom felt himself begin to struggle in keeping afloat. He did so for his young brood, keen to maintain their ignorance of the world's cruelty for as long as he could. They were far too pure to face further heartbreak.

The gilded Alpha stole away for a time, keen to turn focus on a hunt to distract him from his mang woes. He padded quietly through the pallid trees in the direction of neutral territory where he hoped he might find rabbits aplenty, when an unfamiliar voice rose from the pack's territory outskirts.

Dread tugged at his gut, sank like a lead weight into the pit of his belly. Over recent weeks, strangers at his borders brought only bad news - how much more could the wolves of the stream have to suffer?

Artyom turned to greet his newest visitor, and was surprised to find not one but three awaiting the attention of a leader. Golden ears pricked curiously atop his crown and he regarded each newcomer briefly. "Welcome," he greeted smoothly, "I am Artyom, one of the Alphas here. What can we do for you?"