Above Darkwater Rapids, storm clouds gathered in masses so dark and sinister as to appear plumbous, and not clouds at all. They ranged from dove to gunmetal grey, and none of them were inviting. Wise wolves would stay in the safety of their dens to wait out the impending storm, but it could be said that Mace was not exactly a wise wolf. He was a mere two-and-a-half months old, practically still a suckling babe, and had yet to make distinctions in weather to any great degree. Dark clouds overhead meant rain, but that was all he knew; he didn't know that even darker clouds suggested lightning and booming thunder, and he wasn't expecting the torrential downpour that would ensue in a matter of minutes.

For this reason, he streaked from the Darkwater den, unabashed and unperturbed by the livid clouds overhead. Mace never went far—by nature he was a little bit of a troublemaker, but that was what being a cub was all about, and he saw no harm in his actions until his mother scolded him for them—but it was far enough. His paws clumsily stumbled over fallen branches, pockets of thick, spongy moss, and stones as he wandered closer and closer to the hissing rapids, although Mace did know better than to get too close. The danger was one of the first things the pups had been taught, and it was an absolute rule, and Mace didn't break rules he was already aware of. He was a good boy, but naturally, overly curious.

When thunder's gravelly growling began over the deep forest, the pup's head twisted inquisitively upward, accompanied by the pitter-patter of his heart rate picking up. He had heard that sound before, from the bowels of the communal den, but never had he heard it quite so loud or quite so continual… For a long span of five, ten heartbeats, it seemed neverending, a rolling doomsday noise that seemed to vibrate deep into the boy's chest. It died off shortly afterward, leaving Mace to keep his gaze warily fixed to the canopy while he held his breath. When it didn't seem like the sound—a monster, he decided, for only monsters roared like that—would return, he went back to his romping.

It was only a couple seconds before the boy found his next distraction: a strange, earthy pink thing wriggling on the ground. With nostrils aquiver, the boy leant his head down to sniff at it, and the familiarity of its earthen scent triggered his memory; gleefully, he shouted, Weeeerm! and began to prance around it, likely leaving the poor earthworm quite shocked and confused with the heavy pound of his paws on the ground. Werm werm werrrrrm wer—

Suddenly, the sky erupted in a flash of light, stunning the child momentarily, and the following clap of thunder spooked him so badly that he chose a direction—thankfully, away from the rapids—and fled without thought, paws flying wildly and yipping cries hollering from his throat. Soon, his sounds of distress would be drowned out by the rain, and his sense of direction muddled; Mace could only hope he was found before then, although he was not consciously aware how the rain would make him hard to find when it started.