Moonshade. Did as his name does. Stay in the shadows. Only moving when the night's shadows permitted him to. He had kept himself … mostly to himself. Very few wolves knew of his existence. Fewer still knew how to communicate with him. ‘They're all bastards!’ He spitted to himself in his mind! Life was so bloody unfair! Why couldn’t he talk?

Oh, well! Water under the bridge as they say. At four years old, he had grown into a big, chunky, thick legged boy! And how did the other’s not know that such a monster lurked by their shore? Mangroves! Moonie, loved, exploring the mangrove swamps, or the sand dunes, or anywhere he could get himself muddy and dirty! He loved being dirty. If you want to save yourself a long winded explanation? Just don’t ask where he’s been, or what muck he’s rolled in! Trust me! You’ll thank me later.

I hear voices. Dark ears twitch as he hears voices drifting on the salty breeze. His ears flick in and out, picking up words or names of importance. But he didn’t hear the names he was searching for. What ever happened to mum and dad? And my littermate? Where’d they go? Stupid sandflies! Another flick of the ear! Nasty little biters. Head duck. Another coat of mud to crust up and keep the mosquitos at bay!

His whole head flicks in the direction of voices. Some of those names sound vaguely familiar. With a snort and grunt he heaves himself from his wallowing pool. As easily as a rat, he weaves his bulky body through the tangled roots of the trees. He flinches and recoils as he draws closer to the hot sun of daylight. It was dry, hot, and painful! What happened? What happened to all my water and soothing mud? He growls, almost cursing the freaking sky ball of fire! Crack! There goes a large, matted crust of mud from his haunches … Great! The birds will be pecking at my ‘shiney blue-black fur’ if I don’t make this quick!

With a frightening strength. He pulls himself up the twisting roots. Bounds across them in easy strides, and jogs up the beach like a quadrupedal crocodilian from the dark ages. In the daylight, he’s terrifying! This was his home! This was Glorall! Did that not mean glory to all? At least all that were willing to come to her aid? Where the heck was everyone? These interlopers smelt strange.

The large bulky brute rounds a sand dune and almost skids to a complete halt. Golden eyes fly wide in a mixture of shock and furry! Who are these wolves? And why are they dancing on my beach like they own the place? Half of him wanted to duck for cover again. Back to the sand dunes and grassy shrubs where no one can see him. Too late! At least one of them has seen me. Crack! Another fracture, another piece of mud on the floor. Another closer look at the real him. Jeez, the sun! It’s going to burn my back at this rate.

He stares at them. Mistrusting eyes not liking the sight of them one bit. He stands his ground. Toes sinking into the sand and dirt. But he liked the granular feel beneath his paws. He was born here, in the dunes, he was a child of dirt, ocean spray and darkness. Eyes flit to the sky but for a mere moment as a seabird soars above. Gulls are nasty! If you’re not careful, you get your ears nicked!

Golden eyes, like a snipper, flicked around the faces, the young and old. And then it hit him! Was this a family reunion? Are they staying or going? Pop, pop, pop, the mud cracks down his back as his hackles slowly raise. A warning, shall we say. A single gnarled fang slips out of one lip. His jaws and teeth are slightly twisted from catching, killing and eating anything he came across. Birds, fish, reptiles, snails, clams! All was good-eaten if you weren't fussy about crunching down! Are they talking about leaving? He parts his jaw, but stays put, another warning to tell you to clear off! All of you! Get off my beach!

He then notices that one of the bitches had young with her! Cute, little pixies. They move like leaves on the breeze, petals dancing in the water … And then something primal snapped deep inside! The urge to charge! The urge to kill! The urge to defend their home and their hunting rights. Again he pauses. Eyes wide, almost manic by the blinding light of the sun and his white hot hatred by what he saw. Do I? He stops to question himself. Do I want to kill her young? Saliva dribbled from his one hanging fang, and he took a step backwards. Snap! A piece of driftwood. He barks at the sudden sound! In shock, in anxiety and in fear. I’m not afraid of the men, I can handle them, I’m afraid of myself! And what I might be able to do BY MYSELF.

His spine is shaking under his bulk. He raises his head to it’s full beastly height. He lifts his tail to full mast. He stands his ground. No more! No less! This metaphorical line has been drawn in the sand. You come near me? You get shown the dirt! ‘Going somewhere?’ He wants to speak but can’t.