A lone hound sat on the ridge of a great mountain. He looked down upon the valley. His green eyes fallowed a set of shadows as they moved quickly across the strip of grass between the mountains. His age whitened muzzle twitched then wrinkled in a silent growl.

The shadows took shelter in the higher trees and moved beyond his sight, they left for the heart of the range. As if that would save them. Silly game. The hound heaved himself up and looked to the setting sun, she would tell him if he could.

The great yellow shadow maker shifted behind the final peak and settled to bed in the valley. After that she sheltered her light and left for the next month.

This time of brutal darkness would bring bitter cold to bite the hounds hide. But with it also brought the shadows, the shadows that ran from mice and slay his pack. Those shadows would find out just how much it hurt to see their own pack be killed, he would wait.

The hound started his long trot down the high peak and into the veins of green, soon to be white with the paw bitter. Then after the bitter paw bitter dusted the ground he would attack the pack. He would wait.

Paw bitter would not come for three more wake times, when that horrible thing sun should be asleep. Three wake times, when his beloved moon shone like his old mates pelt, when the stars swarmed the sky like his pups once had. He would wait. But this time he would remind the shadows why they feared his kind.

The hound reached the tree line and picked up his pace, this was a time of great importance, after all those shadows who tended the sun pups, they did not wander into his mountains often.