The call came, high on the wind like the misty lights of winter, just as the snow pressed on during the storm. I was almost lost in the howling wind, but that hollow, dead, call could not silence the call of the wild.

"Meet us when highest is the dew killer, not near the cave that growls, closer to where the blood runs not. One That Flew Through Those Who Stand lives no more, wind has taken him. Lose we no one else, the pack lives on."

And I howled, cried for my friend, a wolf like me, the wind had taken him and I howled so that the moon would fall away and that the sun would rise to it's peak so that I might go to the flat hill, far away from the bear's den.
Unknown "Pechu" Rabid - 16 years, 12 months, 1 day ago