Chronicles of the Packs | A Dark Stones One-shot Compilation

Loss

The pale moonlight entered the cave of the Smith, and the older wolf let out a sigh as he inspected the latest helmet he had finished. Holding it in his front paws while sitting on his haunches, he scanned the item for flaws, his leather mask resting on his forehead.

It looks fine, I suppose. Not my best work. He repressed a groan of frustration. Despite the prosthetic of his missing foot working fine, he had never since becoming disabled been able to recapture the finesse of his old work. This helmet looked decent, but it didn't look like he'd pictured it in his mind's eye.

His creations before his paw had been bitten off had been marvels of their kind; beautifully shaped helmets made with care and adorned with intricate detailed engraved patterns and at times unique spikes and horns. This helmet just looked like a plain old helmet. Any wolf with a decent amount of smithing skills would probably be able to make one like this, maybe even better. Luckily there's no other wolves with that skill out there, the Smith thought grouchily. Except for the Army scum that did this to me.

He walked to the back of the cave, where a large pile of helmets, gauntlets, fang and claw extensions were located. The Smith expected the Allied Packs would come to collect them sooner or later.

He then turned to his daughter, Emerald, who was sleeping a little distance away. His gaze involuntarily went to the front left side of her torso where her shoulder and leg would have been, with them having been ripped off when she was just a puppy. Rage again overwhelmed him. Army scum! I'll never forgive them.

He tried to keep his composure. But a Smith must stay apolitical. Sometimes the rules and traditions of his craft frustrated the Smith immensely, but he knew he could never break them. Even if the Army did when they stole my secrets and injured me and Emerald.

He looked at the moonlight entering his cave. He felt tired, as he and his daughter worked almost non-stop since they had agreed to help the Allied Packs in their war against the Army. He gave Emerald her rest when she needed to, but oftentimes he would secretly keep pushing on to lighten her workload. Sometimes I wish the Smith title wasn't a solo one. This'd be so much easier if I had a lot of wolves to help me out. But he knew the secrets of his craft had to remain within Smith circles. The only wolf who would be allowed to help him was Emerald, who would one day succeed him in the title.

He decided to take a little break in order to go for a small hunt. Wolves of the Allied Packs stopped by often enough to bring them some prey in return for his and Emerald's service, but right now there was no stock left. He went outside his cave and blinked against the moonlight. He didn't like brightness, being used to the comforting gloom of his cave. He longed to put on his mask, never quite feeling right going out without it covering his face, however for hunting it would partially obscure his vision, nose and jaws. Instead he simply left it dangling around his neck by its leather straps.

Okay, give me something. Anything. He had to move extra carefully, because his metal prosthetic foot would make unwanted noises from time to time. Soon enough he spotted a small, scrawny looking deer calf. It was young, probably too young to be alone, and the Smith suspected it might have been separated from its mother. Easier prey for me.

He was about to go after the frightened animal when a different scent entered his nostrils–a scent that instantly caused the fur along his spine to rise. No.

With a quick yank he pulled his mask back in front of his face and ran back to the cave. "Em? Em! Answer me! Are you there?"

"Huh?" Emerald's voice was soft and sounded sleepy. "What's wrong?"

"Get over here, behind me!" The Smith's order was curt and panicked.

Catching on to his distress, Emerald limped over to him, tail tucked. "What's going on, Dad?" Fear started to edge her voice.