Are People Born Wicked?

Xairo trotted through the Red Forest, his paws crunching softly on the carpet of fallen leaves and moss. The towering redwoods loomed above him, their ancient trunks so massive that three grown wolves could not have reached around them with paws linked. In the hushed dimness beneath the dense canopy, Xairo felt small and exposed, an unusual sensation.

He lifted his muzzle and inhaled deeply, sorting through the earthy medley of scents - damp soil, decaying leaves, the musky traces of small creatures sheltering in the undergrowth. There was no hint of other wolves- or at least, the best he could tell. It seemed that he was alone out here.

Spotting a fallen log up ahead, Xairo bounded forward, muscles bunching beneath his dark blue fur. He leaped atop it and paraded along the rotting trunk, head and tail held high. One day, the whole pack would look up to him like this, in awe and deference. He just needed a chance to prove himself.

"Xairo Saxe"