The she-wolf is not young; with each dawn, the scent of her own fate grows stronger on the breeze. She has no pups of her own, none living at least, and has only ever known the periphery of the pack. The scattered bones of her legacy will be grown over with moss after the first rain's fall; the marks that she will leave on this world are few and forlorn. Let this, she prays, be one of them.