Stories of the Welfpack

Introduction

She had remained with her Alpha, her mate, from the time he was old enough to howl until the afternoon he died. She knew, but didn’t remember why, that event was of some importance. She moved from pack to pack, slowly. Sometimes she was high ranked, sometimes low. But when it was time, she simply left a pack and fended for herself. Many times she had a mate, those were good times, she preferred company. That she was tremendously older than every living wolf in any pack she followed, she knew – but didn’t remember why it was important.

The wolves didn’t have words for ‘older’ or ‘younger’ except when pups were being raised by their mother. They knew only stronger. Weaker. Smarter, dumber. Higher, lower. Hungry, happy. Enemy, friend.

Her paws laid the same prints as the other wolves. Her scent was the same as any female – unless she’d been rolling in antelope dung, or had the misfortune of being sprayed by a stripe-tail. Her fur, silvery-grey with markings on her face like those of her pack mates, and her eyes - yellow as the harvest moons. But she was not a wolf.

She did not remember, truly, being anything other than a wolf, of course. But she was eternal, where they were clearly not. So she mourned with her pack, and she moved on. Hundreds of such packs had been her homes, for as many turns of the moons as there were stars visible in the clear night sky.

But Timmain did know, somehow one day, that it was time to leave her wandering packs – time to head somewhere. Something was happening. So she did, vanishing once more like the ghost she was, to the north – the north, and the mountains and snow.

She left behind a long, long legacy.