A lone black wolf trudged slowly through the near perfectly silent forest. His head was bowed slightly in weariness, and this weariness was further emphasized by the slightly graying fur along his chest and muzzle. And yet, the wolf was as alert as ever, its one purple and one red eye glowing slightly in the dark.
Eventually on his journey, the wolf would come across an opening in the wall of trees, and would step out onto an outcropping overlooking a few more miles of trees and then ocean beyond that. The moon was close to full, not quite full yet but waxing all the same.
Sitting gingerly onto his hind quarters, the old wolf would lift its head and howl toward the night sky. The howl was mournful and sad, and it seemed to bring an odd sense of nostalgia to all who would hear the tonality of the wolf's cry.
The days of glory were long past, only remnants of said glory eking out an existence. The wolf lamented of the past, and the wolf cried for the future. What lies ahead. What once reigned.
