The Bloodtrail
"Run swift. Strike clean.
Feed the flame, not the pride.
Let the blood lead you home."
These are the wolves chosen to brave the wild—the mothers and fathers, the blood-bound scouts and fangs of the pack. When the sun breaks over the treetops, they are already miles away, tracking prey across frozen streams and through wind-scoured clearings. Elk, hare, even the rare snow-stag—whatever offers strength to the growing den.
Each hunt is a ritual, shaped by the laws of their ancestors. Before they depart, they bow their heads toward the den—toward the pups, toward the sitters who stay behind. Not out of weakness, but respect. For while the hunters feed the pack, it is the den that carries its soul.
They come back carrying not just meat, but memory—news of shifting herds, the scent of foreign packs on the wind, the silence of groves where birds once sang. The world beyond the den is watched just as closely, for danger does not always howl before it strikes.