Redhawk Caldera start over

After witnessing his best friend and the object of his pervert adoration ripped apart by the bear at the Glen, Charles ran and ran and ran and ran. He ran so much that he didn't notice crossing the borders to another pack as the land started to slope up towards some sort of weird-ass half-mountain.

It was as if he was completely off his crackers. Charles' mind couldn't comprehend what he had just seen. The raw power of the violence before him, unlike anything he had ever seen, was mind-blowing, even if it hadn't been wolves important to him. The others who had been there he hadn't known, but they were likely lost anyway. He didn't feel bad for turning around and running. That was the only sane thing anyone could've done!

The coywolf ran and ran and ran — he was good at it, fast, good at running away from his problems — until the scent of wolf suddenly pierced his nostrils. Oh fuck! he shouted as he, distracted by the scents of wolf in his nostrils, tripped over a few loose rocks at that very moment and fell flat on his face halfway up the Caldera.