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A mournful, somber sound reaches out to the air, echoing from the wilds. It becomes long and sustained, rising and falling in its volume and pitch. 

A howl pulses out.

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A hunter on the prowl.
The hunter is hunted.

For the emerging clan, a first taste of that sweet delight of the wilds.
For a packless, a familiar bitter taste of that metallic like blood, the reality of the night.

The moon reveals defeat and victory in the same jungle.
With it, there isn't a howl to be heard miles out, but the chortles and yips.
Maybe just then over there in that once to have been silent night.
Just maybe it could be heard alongside the rumbles and bellows of a prideful king, and his shamanists.

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A howl meant to never be heard echoes out in the forest.

It is filled with pain.

How far does it reach out? How far can the wolf run?