Hatred. Hunger. A burning rage.

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Hatred.
Hunger.
A burning rage.

The greyish clouds moved hastily across a dark and ominous sky, the darkness of the chilling night only briefly pierced by lone rays of moonlight. The pines of the forest casting never-ending shadows across the glistening snow. The clouds slowly started to ease their burden and the snowflakes that started to fall were caught by the howling wind and danced a mad dance between the tall trees of the woods.

Yellow gems move swiftly through the shadows. They are the Brethren, they are the Pack, they are one and they are many. They are the Pack. They are angry.
Slim shapes move quickly towards a goal, muscles driven by naught but burning rage.


A blurry shape struggle through the furious winds, assaulted on all sides by the biting cold.

The shape is a man. His clothes are rags ejected by others, and he is leaning heavily against a wooden staff. He is a dead man walking. He has broken the law, the one law you must never break. He is the reason for the hatred, the hunger and the burning rage. He knows that, he also knows that if he does not outrun them, they will kill him. A will made stronger than iron by the need to escape urge his battered body to continue, to outrun them. Muscles scream in wordless protest, as one foot is placed before the other. One step at a time the dead man struggle to get away from a fate he cannot escape. He knows that, but an inner voice pushes him beyond the limits of his body. Hope, the last thing to leave the human body, still flicker within the mauled shell of what was once a proud and noble man.

The howling winds are suddenly joined by another howl, the Pack has found its prey.

The dead man stops abruptly, raising his head, concentrating, both longing for and fearing the confirmation of his failure. He suddenly sees them, the gleaming of yellow gems confirming his death. The swift shapes of fur-clad hatred approach the dead man.

The man leans heavily on his staff, the hopelessness of the situation making him a victim of helplessness. The fact that there is nothing he can do, nagging him like salt in an open wound.
Dread. He knows there is no hope, but the tiny sparkle that is his soul refuses to surrender its last treasure, the hope refusing to die.

The Pack leaps as one, their hungry jaws flying towards him like a storm of blades. He tries to defend himself but knows there is only a matter of time before he has used his last energy.

The Pack is aware of that, their sharp fangs only causing minor wounds, not fatal but painful none the less, playing with their prey. His last reserves of strength slowly flow out of him, perfectly matched with the steady stream of blood pouring down his battered body.

His body is becoming numb, he does not respond as quickly to the raking of the fangs. Soon he will fight no more, all will be over. He welcomes the thought and hates himself for doing so. He is so close, only a few hundred feet in footsteps, but miles away measured in effort. Soon it will be over. A strange feeling slowly flow through his body, all fear, anxiety and anger of being hindered so close to his goal, slowly transformed into a blood-red rage. His body is possessed by a strength he did not know he had. A red mis...