A whispered breath sounds in his ear. A voice that walked in only but a few of the boy's dreams. It is an urging:

Hunt the lead stag. It will weaken the plague.

Caan shuddered at the dark memory of the veil. Unlike his kin, he was nearly lost to a plagued region. The strangled trees and the deathly chill would not be forgotten. If this hunt was a test of strength of the body against the very sickness of the world, Caan would volunteer repeatedly for such a cause.

Among the number of cautious hunters, the voice loosens the swift like arrows. Wolven figures sprinted across the field to meet the herd. His uncle was included in that number, at the behest of his aunt. Unfortunately for Caan, the darkfang orders the boy to wait. Caan would strike in tandem with his aunt. It was perhaps the only amount of spoken coordination he had heard in this gathering.

His teeth ache and his legs itch as he steps back into place at Meleys's side. Their pace lags behind the sprinters and those who threw themselves toward the herd without caution. Pale eyes watch enviously, but the boy knows that this is a chance to learn. Not only the vital hunting skills necessary for their clan, but to learn of the skills of those neighboring the Saastine.

His eyes do not move from the figures attempting to break the herd's line. Even if he was not yet on the front lines, his mind was still working. Darkfang, when the stag is isolated, should we run it down?

Would they even need to with the great number of hunters with them?