Cold and dark, dark and cold. The colourless world floats around me now, like the dream that it is: just a dream I once had of trees and earth and good strong cider. It means nothing to me now.
There is only the pack, only the chase, only the icy wind and the voice of our master guiding us through glade after wild glade, to work the winter spells. His iron hooves are our heartbeat, his horns and the hunting horn are the only song we know.
Run, run, run. Run. Run and never stop; run and never drop; run. We tread the sky as easily as the imaginary earth, and our prey always falls. Run.
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