The territory of the Howling Moon Clan was shrouded in the night.
Russell stood on the rocky platform of Crescent Valley, with patches of gray intermingled in his blue-gray mane.
The lifespan of gray-haired werewolves is not long, only about fifty years.
Six years have passed, pushing this once youthful chieftain into middle age. His fur is not as vibrant as it once was, but his eyes remain sharp as knives.
In the valley, the werewolf warriors were resting.
They carried both old and new scars, some left by ogres and others by hunting and internal conflicts.
Russell was acutely aware that dissatisfaction was growing within the clan.
The young challenger Zong Fire had publicly questioned his decisions more than once at gatherings, and the Elder Shaman, over sixty, was nearing the end of his life. His mind grew increasingly muddled, and he no longer stabilized the clan's hearts as he used to.
Howl! A low wolf howl echoed from afar.
The patrol team had returned.
