Howling in their masses from thrones of satire blood, dominant alphas tear vein after vessel, a peace once united, now a hollow cast of ignorance, whimpers to be heard.

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Their rabid foaming mouths spit unrest, a fight for the land which yearns for mercy. A once easy life now thundered and ravaged, the life of the pack may crumble and fall.

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The teeth they bare will strike fear in masses, yet underneath a fragile ache for sympathy. A power that they crave but may never grasp again, cursed with the desire for the tender sweet warmth of rest.

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What may seem lost and frail from unrest, white legends of night stand for worse or the best. With no stopping for now time will only spell, the howl of the pack will reign strong once again...