Young and inexperienced, Serach was rather unsure of himself. His bravado had been left unanswered, by everybody, leaving him more disoriented than before. So the juvenile stayed silent, sticking close to his two uncles. His hunting experience was woefully lacking - the winter stealing away from him all hopes of learning the tricks of becoming a successful predator. With few exceptions, his kills had been limited almost entirely to the smallest of game, so when Triell spoke up, the Aesir boy was quick to turn his head and listen attentively. Watch and see, Serach felt confident in his ability to do that, at least.

Still glaring after the direction the strange wolves had gone, Serach fell into step behind his two uncles. The snow was heavy, though, and Serach was still clumsy on his lanky legs. Even if he had complete mastery over his paws and legs, the young wolf took after his father in build, built for strength rather than speed. Triell and Ruiko were similar, but they had the advantage of age, and soon enough, the cub found himself falling behind the other two. But he continued to push through the snow, pushing his body at as quick of a pace as he could manage without tumbling face first into the snow.

The adrenaline certainly helped. He had no idea who these other wolves were, but their presence had lit a fire within the Oak Tree Bend wolves that had been lacking. Cold, both inside and out, Serach ran, tongue rolling out of his mouth and his sides heaving as he panted. For the first time since his mother had passed, the boy was beginning to feel normal, his own instincts for survival supplanting any other emotion. The clamoring of his stomach was audible and his salvia dripped from his mouth to the snow. He might not be particularly useful, but he was certainly hungry and prepared to fight for his piece of the kill.

His hooves churned the earth underneath him as he continued at a breakneck pace towards the forest. In his heart he knew he stood a chance, he was faster than the wolves on a good day. But today was not a good day and he could feel that. Today was a very bad day. A thousand monsters poured out of the hills and into the valley at his back and their eyes were like brandished daggers that wavered and sparkled, waiting to cut into him. Dread overwhelmed him as searched every inch of his body for the energy to run faster. He came up empty — he was running on empty and he would not be able to keep this up. Defiantly, Tuqloq bellowed again, "You'll never take me!" He was as healthy and strong as a bull could be, God could not mean for him to die this day.

Could he?

The curiosity gnawed at him like the teeth of his pursuers. How far back were they? Was he going to make it? Were they gaining on him? He had to know. Carelessly, he threw a glance over his left shoulder and saw the vile demons fanning out behind him, branching out to the left and the right. Fuck. They were all around him, and he knew from experience that the caribou-killers could keep this up probably for longer than he could. Shit.

And just as his courage began to fail, his legs started to fail him too. He tripped.

Abruptly Tuqloq crashed to the ground, carried forward some feet by the force of his momentum. The bull cried out in pain, and tried to climb back onto his feet. But he would never be able to do it fast enough. The wolves were upon him. They would be here any moment. Dread overwhelmed him as he realized he was without his trusted weapons, his antlers. God truly had chosen this day for him to die.

He closed his eyes.