Their muzzles were stained darkly from their feed and stood out in stark contrast with the monochrome world that surrounded them. The hunger of the Wargs had been abated for the present.
Nimue, the young she-wolf ran her tongue across her gore stained lips and looked at Ragarok. The falling snow camouflaged him well as it caught in his coat and the wind forced his thick fur to move in waves. He shook a heavy head, whether in dispair or more likely discomfort at the snow, there was no telling. There was nothing left for them in their own lands.
The young wolves, their blood-spattered state at odds with their almost downy coats, frolicked about Nimue for a few moments enjoying full stomachs for the first time in several days. Their energy soon wained and they lay around her; panting.
The other wolf wandered away from them. Not so far as to become detatched from all that remained of a once flourishing pack but far enough to let Ragnarok know that something was amiss.
Daylight had long since broken through the cloud and the snow began to ease. The wind never ceased. Ragnarok looked up into the sky and growled to himself. He barked sharply at them. It was time to move.
Their territory may be empty of food but he knew of other places where, at high risk, it could still be obtained. He was going to leave. If the others followed, so be it. If they died along the way with him, it would spare him from hunting. He had alerted them of his departure and he expected to be obeyed.
He shook the snow off his shoulders, raised his head and sought a scent upon the wind. He nodded to himself, resigned to whatever the endless Winter had in store for him. Ragnarok turned away from the other Wargs and began to tread silently through the snow in search of prey.
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Auriel
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