Things were pretty alright here. No one really bothered him. They were a pack, often communing together, but he still could feel like he had his space even when they were altogether. They didn't have those, expectant looks for him or try to prod him into conversation. They didn't care about his opinion on dumb shit like the day's weather or whether or not he thought the herds would stay the winter. So long as he worked and was around, he was allowed to just be.
This would be a much easier winter than last to get through.
A crack snapped through the air, echoing softly off of the snow-covered trees. He'd finally worked the bone in half, and now happily accessed the marrow within. His tail was even thumping against the snow merrily, a rare show for the dour wolf. He'd caught his own meal that morning, and was now taking his time in enjoying it and cleaning every last morsel off of the bones. If he had it his way, there would be nothing left for the decomposers.
Hopefully, things stayed like this. Just him, his kill, and the silence of solitude.