Five years since isolation…Five years since we first stepped into that frozen hell, and five years since we ever set foot out of that wasteland. We were the rejects of society; rejects of the pack, the most hated in the entire world. We were the ones they deemed crazy, rotting in a cesspool of our own "twisted" believes.

We are they Northern Pack.

I kept my position at the head of group, my eyes fixed on my paws smashing the diminishing snow beneath. Every now and then, I would look up to see where I was walking, the last thing I wanted was to walk right into a tree. Winston and Tony, those two would be fools to not accept my treaty. Word spread to our sentries that the Eastern and Western Packs united and became one. If they united with us, then only one pack would have control over all of Jasper.

You might think, with our unification, we would stand a better chance against predators like the bears. No. The bears were allies to us. They were no threat to us. I knew those two fools would not approve of our alliance with them, but who really gave a damn about their preferences of friends and allies? Anyone that could help us get what we need is a friend to us, and that was all that mattered. They would accept our allegiance, whether they liked it or not…

Every time I think back to Winston, I always felt anger. Anger, because he banished me to the north. Unlike most, I knew why; it was because of Cyrus's death. But Winston had to understand why I did it, even though he was our brother.

I was the oldest of our litter; Winston was the middle pup, and Cyrus was the baby of the family. Now when I thought back to him, a smile would come over my face. When we were young, he was a typical little brother; he desired to be near me all the time, wanting to go with me wherever I went, even if it was to spend some time with the female that would become my mate. I loved Cyrus, until he became an obvious threat to what I had planned; planned for the packs.

I tried to get Winston to understand if Cyrus wouldn't. But he was just as stubborn; too attached to the old ways of the pack, the same rules that we have followed for hundreds of years. Thinking of how traditional the Eastern and Western Packs were, oh it makes feel sick; like I've just eaten a piece of meat from a caribou that's been dead for weeks upon months.

My pack, they fear me. Some fear, some loath. Why? Because I'm a killer, among other seditious things. Even I can admit this, because it is a fact that I know and embrace. It is necessary for what I have planned, involving the treaty with the pack.

They do not attempt to overthrow me, my pack, because they are just as guilty of these crimes as I am. They understand my mission, they participate, they help me, and they still hate me for it… It is possible that it is because of how old I am. My age has been humorously compared to that of the mountains, by my supporters and my adversaries alike. They figure, why overthrow me now, when I'll be dead soon? It enrages me. They mock, they jar, because they do not understand…

Fools. Instead of trying to get a better understanding of who I am, and why I do this, they mock me instead of taking the time to understand…

My fur is black, as black as the night sky. But with my age, my fur has thinned in several spots, to the point that my scarred grey skin can be seen beneath. It is not soft; the texture has been described as being as coarse as a bear's rear end; another one of many crass insults that I do not find amusing, not the least one bit. My eyes…my eyes are a deep yellow, almost gold color; not a soft kind like you would think, but a hard, cold kind that reflects the demeanor and personality I possess.

The only thing that keeps me running, keeps me alive, is the knowledge that my son, a large wolf by the name of Fenrir, will keep my campaign alive. Fenrir is a good boy, but that could be based entirely on your point-of-view. He inherited my black fur, his soft like mine was in my youth, and his mother's eyes and part of her personality…along with mine.

After what seemed like hours, I finally lifted my head and looked back at my pack. Mixtures of black and grey fur, and the occasional but rare lighter color lined the snowy landscape. I knew that a few wolves might have died during this journey; those who are too weak to name themselves a member of the Northern Pack. Pathetic, they join us but they cannot bear the weight that comes with being a part of such a pack.

I exposed the teeth on the right side of my muzzle when I growled and swiftly turned my head back to the path. Ahead in the distance, the far-off distance, I could just barely see the peak of the old mountains that I once knew when I was young. And in the center of those mountains, I could faintly see the Howling Rock. How I missed those mountains, how I longed to sit on top of that tall peak and howl at the full moon…but…I could not and would not let that distract me. There would be plenty of time for that once my campaign is complete. We would reach the mountains in roughly a few days. I could feel it in my veins.

My name is Pontius, and I am the Alpha of the Northern Pack.

Wow, I sure can write fast when doing first person perspective! XP This was a quick update, hope you enjoyed!