[Child of the 7th Age]

Four swift dark shadows padded noiselessly over the North Downs and then slipped into an isolated wood thicket, scouring the land for any scent of prey. The pickings from the night before had been pitifully few. There had been no deer or ferral pigs; they had been compelled to make do with one tiny coney whose body had been greedily devoured. The empty feeling in their bellies drove the pack onward towards the ancient Forest, a territory they usually avoided. Desperate to find something to eat, they put aside normal caution and ventured onto unfamiliar ground, hoping that the pickings would be better there.

Grog halted for a moment under a low craggy overhang and sat on his haunches, signalling the others to do the same. A lean scarred bundle of muscle and grit, leader of the pack, he cocked his head to one side and sniffed the night air to try and determine what lay ahead. A sudden breeze carried faint scents from the south, a strange yet familiar odor that he could not quite place.

"Two-leggeds?" Aisha queried, flinging a probing eye at Grog. "Men or Orcs? They make poor hunting and worse eating." She spat the words onto the ground with undisguised contempt.

None of the pack wanted to deal with Orcs or Men. They'd had too many bad encounters. Their own band had once included twelve wolves and several pups. Two-leggeds and their infernal wars had made their lives a misery in the far north. All the plump livestock and even the deer had been killed off by marauding soldiers. Six of their own number had died, clubbed down by a band of raiding Orcs who had dismembered the carcasses with fierce, bloody hands and eaten them raw. Aisha quivered at the memory of her lost brothers and sisters.

Grog smelled again and then smiled as the meaning of the scent became clear. His nostrils widened as he drew the air in, tasting it on his tongue. "No, these are not Men or Orcs. I have seen their kind before: small things that go on two legs, plump and tasty, and not so large or fierce as the others. Just right for a pack such as ours."

Grog leaned his head back and howled at the moon in triumph, anticipating his victory meal. The other three did the same. Then the band silently got to its feet and, following the scent, descended towards the target at a dead run.