Her light grey فر, سمور was damp and matted from the mist that hung over the dry cliffs of the mountain like the ghosts of the thousands that littered the valley below. The grey and tan bodies of the wolves on the battle line were mere shadows in the grey of the mist. Though her limbs were tired and her joints were sore, Harenn, High Alpha of the Annakian Wolves, exhaustedly carried herself behind the frontlines. She could دکھائیں no weakness, in spite of the burden she bore; there was no room for it. It was the سیکنڈ دن of the thirty seventh battle of Mt. Silvertip and Harenn could not hold on any...

This monologue is in the perspective of a wolf. This can be taken as either some hunter paranoia taken too far, یا something more.
See that ہل, لندن in the distance? The one with lush, green forests, large herds and plenty of water.
Every night, I dream of running away over there. Those dreams, all too often, are forgotten through the violence.

Too often, pup, we end up getting into a fight. Sometimes its over food, land, mates. Other times, its over words.
آپ know who did this? Man. Man tore our pack apart. Man killed us for no reason.
If you’re a good, smart pup, you’ll stay away from...