Sleetstorm

While patrolling your territory borders in the night, you heard an ominous growl. The source of the growl revealed a terrible sight. A wolf from a nearby rival pack was holding a pup's corpse in its mouth. After a series of alerting growls and barks, the wolf stalked away hidden in shadows, leaving the pup's body behind. Upon investigation, you realise the corpse belonged to the young Sleetstorm, now cold and lifeless. What a horror.

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It is customary to those whispers within the winds to educate their children, from the moment they take their first steps, that the mists are what protect and shield them. Their territories eternally cloaked in the obscuring fog that works as well as any wall, as they are the only ones who have learned to traverse them — and used that advantage to deadly effect when dealing with intruders.

They do not name their pups, for the wilds are dangerous and the nights long.

"Dereliction of duty is a serious crime, Warmblood."

The loss of one pup mere months prior had been enough to drive the pack to malicious vengeance. The loss of another, one that bore the blood of their leaders, was enough to bring them to frenzy. The first had been accepted as an accident - a fault of her own refusal to heed the warnings of adults. The death of one with blue blood, however, was the fault of the sitter who had fled like a coward when times grew hard.

"A famine is no reason to abandon those who depend on you."

Food had been scarce, hunting was unsuccessful, and Warmblood had slunk away when no one was looking. Likely to seek greener pastures. Unfortunately for him, Umbra had proved her worth. She dragged him back the very day that the pup's attacker had been discovered and he was laid out before his leaders - the deceased child's parents. Golden pelt marred by the teeth of Velia - the normally calm wolf made livid by the loss of young life. Umbra only watched, yawning as if the affair had been boring to her, while Velia and Dandelion tore into him with both words and fangs.

"You're quite lucky that we are in need of fresh blood, whelp."

Mistral's voice resounded over this display, forepaws crossed as Sidhe stood at his side. She herself seemed barely capable of withholding her anger, fur a rippling and bristling sea as she looked down at the wolf who's neglect had lead to her offspring's demise.

"But not so lucky as for me to not allow yours to be spilled."

Mistral nuzzled at his mate's shoulder a silent gesture of consent, and she tore from his side and lit into the golden wolf's hide. Mistral lapsed into silence as Warmblood's howls and pleas set the night air alight, quietly planning his next move and action. The sitter would live. Sidhe would never let him die. Death was too easy a reprieve for his crimes. But the scars he'd bear would show his shame for the rest of his life. He was truly lucky that his existence was a necessity.

Unlike that of the Stalker, who's throat Mistral's teeth ached to find.