The strength of a pack lies with the leader. That's one thing most -- if not all -- wolves know well. Sometimes the leader is chosen naturally, by simply being the oldest or wisest one present. Other times it's hereditary, a parent turning the title over to their child and so on and so forth. Still other times, it's chosen by proving you're the strongest, the most powerful.

Corrigan had been chosen that way. As his pack grew, he proved again and again he was the best leader, the best strategist, the best at hunting and running and hiding and fighting. There was no larger clan banner for himself and the other loners he picked up along the way, no protection of a codified territory, just the few of them in an old cabin they'd found and fixed up, sheltering against the wind and snow and cold of a handful of winters in the mountains. And for a while, that had been enough -- Corrigan and his brothers, his family, his pack.

Lately, though, he can sense the tension building, the cracks starting to form. He can feel, like any good leader should, how there are frustrations and pent-up stress without outlets, showing in more frequent fighting, more sulking and brooding, more splintering off into sub-factions. That's normal, in a pack. But it's also a sign that a group of six werewolf men need something to unify them, a common focus, something to fight for, instead of against each other. Someone to help relieve all that pent-up tension.

So: Corrigan leads them to the edge of the forest, close enough to see the human settlement, for a particular kind of hunt. The six of them settle down in the bushes and they wait. There are six, and that's a good amount.

But seven would be better.