The wolves came swiftly, silent as ghosts that had just departed the Spirit of the Woods. Great tongues greedy, lapping the blood that flowed from the slowly ending wound. This was in reverence, not hate, which drove them from the shadows to the site of the fallen. The blood could not return to the earth, it would be theirs. Trees did not understand the fleet footed beat of hearts, the fear of man, and the bright darkness that came at the end. They were naught but steady sentinels in their slow, humming existence; a pondering beat in which quicker lines of music played upon. So the wolves took, drawing away the red from the water and earth, consuming to hold the Spirit within them until another was revealed to them.