Soldiers of Ice

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It was a bad day for hunting. Old Wolf Ear knew it would be fruitless. The sun was already too bright and too high, and the pack was too far from the ragged darkness of the woods. There wouldn’t be any game in this flat snowfield between the forest and the icefall at the glacier’s base. The hunter knew all this even before it wrinkled back its muzzle to sniff the cold, sterile scent of pine and ice.

The air carried none of the tingling warmth of deer musk or rabbit scat, only a suggestion of newborn mice buried deep beneath the snow Me grizzled stalker toyed with the idea of digging them out, but the tiny morsels weren’t worth the effort. Besides, Wolf-Ear was with a pack and had to uphold the old gnoll’s reputation as a hunter. So instead of digging, Wolf-Ear growlingly spat into the snow to cleanse out the lingering scent.

“No more hunting. Back to village,” Wolf-Ear barked, glaring at the three whelps accompanying it, keeping its one strong eye on them. Two of the three younglings properly lowered their heads in submission to the old cur’s judgment. The third, though, glared back defiantly. This one stood slightly taller than the old hunter, the older gnoll being stooped and bent.

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