The woods of Silvermoore were silent, too silent. No rustling of trees, no chirps or hoots, and most importantly, no howls.
The moon cast a soft glow on the forest floor. A heavy mood hung in the air as all the wolves of Silvermoore marched through the foliage. In their middle, was a bloody battered figure that they had all come to know and love. The women wept, the elders sulked. Even the Wolf cubs felt the overhanging pain in the air.
The figure was carried on a stretcher made by binding small wooden logs together with vine horizontally. To his side was the pack Beta, Tyril, and behind him was Drew. Both wolves looked down in despondence at the beaten sight of their Alpha.
Four wolves heaved his stretcher above their heads, strong and desperate to get him where he needed to be. At first glance, one would think that the wolves were arranging for his burial. It seemed as much.