Phoenix Maplewood death becomes us all

When Artyom picked up Salvatore's scent and tracks in the snow, heading beyond Whitebark territory into the neighbouring maplewood, the pale leader followed. He saw an opportunity to strengthen the bond between comrades, figuring perhaps they could hunt, entirely unaware of the misfortune that lurked between the frosted trees that day.

It came in the form of tusked beasts, a type that screamed in a way Artyom would never forget. Pace quickend and ears alert, the hunter loped with new urgency to catch up with his pack-mate so they might investigate the cries together, perhaps bring some fresh meat home to their expectant mothers.

By the time he found his ashen companion, however, it was too late. He halted in his tracks as earthen eyes sourced a broken body on the ground, tasted the metallic tang of blood and bowel in the air. It was the last thing he expected and, swallowing the threat of bile that rose in his throat, somehow managed to convince himself to creep forward.

Amid the pungent aroma of spilled inners was that of the creature responsible. It was the way of nature, he supposed: kill or be killed. Still, though this great loss was no one's fault, Artyom harboured regret within him that he hadn't been able to locate his comrade sooner. He stood there silently, solemnly, and thought fondly of the short time in which he'd found a friend in Salvatore.