It was a gray wolf, common to Transylvania, but its strength and size were unusual. It was clearly a Dragga-an alpha male, dominant in its pack-but it was bigger than most. Its fur was a beautiful glittering silver gray, and its tail was tinged with red. It had a strong, handsome face, with brilliant white fangs and gums as pink and healthy as the flesh of a new plum.
But the wolves had learned from birth to fear the Man above all the predators, for he was a merciless hunter of their kind.
A pack works together, Bran," he cried. "Don't ever forget that. If we don't have that, what by Tor and Fenris do we have?
You could take nothing of the kind, you fool. Besides, we hunt the weakest not just for the ease of the kill, but so that the Herla may go on, too, and feed us in the future. That is the law of the Putnar.
Ask a scavenger's permission to eat?" she snorted. "No, Larka, we are Putnar, we ask no one's permission.
A good lesson for survival, children. When we can't find game, wolves must look to the flying Lera to aid us and scavenge a meal. Although we are Putnar, we must listen for their calls on the air, too, for as the park works together, so all nature must aid itself.