Pack of Crimson Frost

There's new blood in town, they say, when the air tastes of unfolding tensions and the trees are lacerated with marks of an incoming storm. Rumours--of sightings, of signs, of bright red owl's eyes beyond the cloak of darkness--but nothing substantial to prove their presence. A brave scout ventures into the copse of pines knit tighter than a basket weave. 

Come dawn, the mountain frost is stained crimson with what's left of him.