Runs the Ridges sat looking down upon the valley. He could remember long ago when he was young of a time when the blessed watched over them and protected them. That time has long since past. Within the earths teeth game had become scarce, two legs with the stench of rot had infested the land and driven the game away. His pack had grown lean, not out of choice. His mate was with pups and he had no choice but to venture down from the higher ranges. He had smelled the prey here, healthy and vibrant. He had seen the fireflies and heard the barks of the two legs. He knew they could avoid the two legs, but most of his pack knew nothing of the them. They were not as wise, nor as gifted as him. They lived during the moment and could not remember much of seasons ago. They could not remember him sending the blessed away, when they had sought mates. He had told them that sharing had its cost. He blames himself for their absence. Now they are alone and he is to blame.

There are shelters here he has found them. Some stank of the two legged beasts and his mate would never birth there, but he had found ones long lost. He is at his last hope here, he must always be wary of the man barks and the loud roar of their monsters. It is his penance, if only the blessed were to return.

 It is out there, I can smell it. It has sprayed upon my borders and I know it is far different then any other male. It will not approach. I will eventually have to fight it.

It is lurking, watching, waiting. I am strong as is the pack, having fed on this land of plenty. Only twice have I seen the two legs. I ran before they ever laid eyes upon me. I know their stink and the whistles of their bark. It confuses me that they are so many. One day we will not have the four legs to chase anymore and they will be our only choice. I may not see those days, but it shall not take long.

Where are my brothers?

Where have they gone?

What did I do...

The great stone in the sky grows large again. This vexes me. It always vexes me. My senses harry me, my mind races. The ghost-wolves that call themselves 'ancestor' will not leave me be. They goad me, prod me, tell me to go to the stinking, filthy, stone-forest of the man-things.

My body is ill. There is a hunger I cannot sate. My limbs ache and burn. Perhaps I am diseased. Perhaps this is why the others have run me out, forced me to eat scraps and droppings.

They leave less and less of their kills for me. If I try to claim my own kills again, they will surely kill me the next time.

Soon I will have no choice.