The pale contours of the bleached bones are in stark juxtaposition against the dark grey rocks. The sky with all of it's coldness and faraway distance is a nest to the silvery stars, pinpricks of light against the abyss of timeless space. The grass, in the daylight a dull green, has turned into the pale grey monochrome that night brings. Above the bones and the rocks, on a ship of silver clouds that soars in the river of time and space, the argent and solemn moon rests.
Stalking in a purposeful circle around the bones, an unusually large wolf's eyes take in the silent tundra. It's fangs, the same color as the white bones, are visible beneath the black fur. It's muted footsteps make hardly a sound, velvet pads on corse grey rock. It's ears are tilted full up, warily listening for any hint of danger.
The wolf throws it's massive head back, and emits an unearthly sound. The sound, a howl, undulates across the air, ripping through the austere and silent night. It sits down, the howl changing it's note to one of great sadness and sorrow. This spectacle of torment continues on, changing pitch again and again; deep, low howls to painful, high yips, with only the various aspects of night bearing witness.
When at last the rosy-fingered dawn deems it worthy to peek her head over the mountains, the wolf is quiet, it's anguished lament over. With a lilting growl, the wolf pads softly over to the bones. One of them, whiter than the rest, seems to interest it. Licking it's pink tongue across the ivory skull, the wolf emits a sorrowful growl, throwing it's head back up one last time for a rising shriek of agony. Lowing it's great head, the wolf gently picks up the skull in it's mighty jaws, careful not to mar it's pearlescent surface.
Springing on it's muscular hind legs, the wolf takes off at a steady, loping pace, it's massive feet thrumming steadily against the ground. It's eyes, the color of molten gold, are pools of sadness. Running across the grassy and rocky fields of the summer tundra, the wolf makes its way toward a dark green forest shaded masterfully by the rising sun. Reaching the piney boughs of the sentinel trees, the wolf adjusts its pace to a brisk trot, the skull nestled between it's teeth. Darting in between the trees, it heads deeper and deeper into the forest until finally, it reaches a copse of trees particularly closer together than the rest. Stalking into the darker shade of green, the wolf growls. Not a loud growl, but a soft, carrying sound that alerts other wolves of its presence.
And the other wolves come. Slowly, but surely, they come. Stalking out from under logs, leaping over bushes, uncurling from their restless sleep. Laying the ivory skull down at his feet, the wolf howls for one, final time, bewailing death, not in general, but this one particular death. The voices of the other wolves circle up into the sky, joining it. The sun's golden glow ripples with the voice of the pack.
