Wolves On The Moor – December 1418

Diamond waited for the perfect shot, hoping the wind would not shift, changing predator to prey.  Her arrow, once loosed, struck swift and deadly, and blood trickled red upon winter-pale fur.  A short yelp a few feet behind startled her, reminding her that wolves never hunted alone, and thankfully, neither did she.  Her twin rose from the brush with a fierce grin, his hand already on his knife to collect the warm pelt.  There had never been so many unwelcome intruders on the Moor, on two legs or four, not within living memory.  Something ominous stirred outside the Shire.