The wind carries their howls. It carries their bloodlust and intent.
They are hunting us, even as we hunt them.
Though they are the only pray we do not eat; such flesh as theirs must never pass our throats. We hunt them purely for survival.
They hunt us for sport, for slaughter and dark joy; a need for torn flesh in their teeth, blood spilt in moonlight.
They are stronger, but we are cunning. We are wolf.
They have lost nature’s subtlety, there is too much of man in them; too much of the men they were, in the daylight.