I do not own White Fang.
The pack ran along the trail. It was hunting season. They needed meat. They had smelled men, a form of meat, up ahead. They were the embodiment of the wild, blindly destroying. They were mere puppets, acting for one purpose only: satisfying hunger. Hunger ruled their lives, stimulated their decisions, and when left unattended, became intolerable pain. They followed instincts, did anything to follow their hunger and end pain.
The she-wolf ran along with One Eye, her breath coming off in white puffs. It was amazing she was still running; she hadn't eaten in weeks. She ran, her skeletal legs pulling her thin frame past miles of vast emptiness. The Wild stretched before them, but instead of beating down their movement, encouraged them. They would find meat soon enough.
The wolves are the progeny of the Wild and the North, dangerous beasts designed to survive no matter what. Hunger tied them again into a tight pack formation, and they had the upper hand. Humans are fragile creatures, needing sunlight and regular food. The wolves' sharp fangs were no match for their meaty hands. The wolves licked their chops, anticipating a big meal.
The sun was going down, and the trail of man was getting weaker. The old leader howled mournfully once, and slowly the wolves stopped. They slowed their steps, caught their breath, and sat into awkward, exhausted positions. Some were already burying their ways into warmth underneath a thick blanket of snow. Their paws scraped methodically at the soft snow underfoot.
The red she-wolf sat towards the middle of the pack, the old leader beside her. Others tried to edge closer to her, but One Eye snapped at them. If he didn't manage to drive them away, a snarl or snap from the she-wolf herself would make them back up to a respectable distance. She sat proudly and thrust her head up, facing the cold Northern sky. She opened her mouth and howled once.
Her cry went on, mournful and sad yet sweet. A few other voices joined in, until it was a heartbreaking chorus of wolfish laments. The she-wolf stopped, then started again, her howl louder than before, and others joined in, mounting to a moment where it was one voice, one wolf, one being.
That is the way of the pack. Wolves become one because of a common interest: eating. They know they must end their suffering due to hunger, and together they have a better chance of survival. The she-wolf let her howl die down, and no one started again. The shuffling, whining and growling resumed as the other restless wolves tried to rest. The others finally quieting down and burying themselves in snow, the she-wolf tried sleeping.
Hunger was still eating away at her, giving her pain and demanding to be acknowledged. She stood over the pack of forty-odd wolves, the leaders spread around her. She watched over the pack, her nose in the air, sniffing for the scent of men.