The sun rippled over the mountains, an ocean of light so far and yet so near.

Scent detection is like peeling apart a painting, you discover many layers you could not see before.

Others would say it is like painting itself. Warg disagreed with this statement - for blood was still a mystery paint to him.

He waved his tail brush, scrubbing the world clean of all he did not care to see. Scent was all that mattered.

It would be near impossible, after all, to see a wolf who's pelt was melted and then frozen into being from the flakes of snow itself.

Snow was his daughter, but also a lone wolf. And she was to be treated as such.

He skidded across the sleet, flanked by twin Scouts. He could not let all he held dear fall. The late Delta had spoken with the tongue of the lunar goddess, herald of fate.

There, a subtle hue in the painting, alike to his own. It led him to a mound in the snow, almost the snow itself, but not quite.

His daughter had not heeded his warning. She was still on his territory.

And now she would know the true meaning of 'lone wolf'.