Come spring he would finally be a year old. Already his body had lengthened and his legs had grown thick and sturdy. Blackthorne was a healthy youth. He took the largest share of food brought home by their mother and Natiya did not complain. If she did then they would re-establish the pecking order which usually resulted in her belly up and neck exposed. She didn't put up much of a fight; she was his follower and he was the leader. He demanded it. He had long since begun wandering from the confines of Glorall. Today he slipped away, leaving behind his sister to watch over the meadow that he had called his own even if it was covered with snow. Whatever she did in between he didn't care about for the moment.

His paws crunch through snow as he meaders down the edge of the river. The sun glares down harshly at his black figure, the cows lick on the crest of his head forever standing up with a silver spot to mark it. His odd eyes gleam in the blinding light, gleaming silver despite their darkness. A low growl permeates the air as a hidden bunny sudddenly leaps out from a snow drift in front of him and takes off, his muscles twitching with the urge to chase it down. But he was not hungry and while torturing it would amuse him for the moment it wasn't worth the effort. He was tired of little prey, he needed something larger. He had watched a few of the pups in his own pack and would take the time soon to get them alone.

At one point his paw presses onto the thin ice of the river and cracks, plunging it into the cold, and he pauses to peer inside before moving up the bank. From a distance he thinks he spies movement in a copse of trees. Another wolf? Young from the size if it is. Immediatly his pace quickens and he heads towards it...