The cold
What made this mountain side wonderful was indeed night time, the stars opened up so brightly one could almost reach up and touch them, but with the open night sky came the biting knife like cold that claimed so many young wolves in the past.
It was difficult to say when it will come up here, down in the valley the end result of a sheer cold night would show in the black dead grass or leaves of trees, but here on the rocks the only thing that would reveal if the black death struck was a cold body of a pup who accepted the warmth of Hypothermia.
A warm death at least, its the con artist of all ways death finds you, its only cold for a short while, then suddenly one would feel warm, probably the one gripped by the black death then thinks the fire has been stacked again and burnt more... But instead, death already painted its canvas.