(Just a copy of the post I removed earlier, sorry again for my mess up.)<br/><br/>Feign runs and jumps through the thick canopy silently.  His senses are powerfully tuned by necessity and urgency.  The forest is obeying him, letting him move through it as a part of itself.  The voice of the forest practically screams for him to drive the intruders out.<br/><br/>He follows behind the pack of tracking wolves, waiting for them to split just enough to pick them off seperately.  The female he hit with the first dart was lagging behind, practically going in circles.  Two of the wolves stop long enough for him to slide to a halt and fire his bow at them.<br/><br/>The crude arrows fly as if they are perfectly, the yelp of one wolf distracts the other for a split second before the second arrow hits it in the back.  The two pull the syrenge-tips out of their hides and start laughing at them as if they are the funniest objects they've seen in years.<br/><br/>By the time they fall over in their own hysterics, Feign is already leaping overhead.  He doesn't know what he will do once he has used his last arrow, but the sound of the forest's pleading pushes him onward.  The hunters are legion, but the wolves are the real danger.  Something about the thought of the hunters is filled with a hunger, almost as if the forest itself wishes to consume them.