There is something essentially though-provoking about hanging on to dear life with eighty-five feet of sheer rock surface and jagged boulders waiting for you below. Twist is engaged in such an excercise. Meditating on the purpose of life, as it were. It might end right here, after all, and if he does not know how to achieve true contentment, well, then he might as well let his front paws let go, shouldn't he?

The descent was easier, but months of erosion had changed the path to his 'home'. There was no easy way up. So here he was. Dangling on a ledge - oh look, is that a kid? A goat not yet grown yet look at how those tasty legs have grown fat with the few clumps of coarse grass that grow on these mountains. Twist figured out the answer, then.

For when all is said and done, despite the machinations of his mind, the politics of the pack and the quest for dominance that seemed to spark the eyes of his fellow wolves, Twist's mind was only on one thinking one thing, if for but this one moment in life. That rotund goat would make a most-tasty meal after those weeks without even a single rodent.

The scrabble of nails on stone, then. The struggle of life and limb. The pattering of hooves, looking for purchase. They find none, only to let their owner fall. Oh, hey, it was only a foot. A foot closer to the jaws of a very, very hungry wolf. A ravenous consumer of goat, had Twist become. The working of the teeth on hide without, to taste the juice of the meat within.

Life's answers need not be answered when the needs of the stomache growled for a quicker answer. Yet, here Twist was. Driven by need - the need to see how his 'family' was. Not to gloat and say "Hey, look at me, I made it to a big, healthy pack in the valley and I'm their Beta." No, just to look. Just to look.

A month has passed and lo, our wolf arrives at the end of his journey. Or at least, the climax has arrived. He stands upon a ledge, very much like the one a month before from which he dangled, a tasty morsel for the vultures who waited. Oh, but see now how he stands, tall, proud, and with no wavering despite the icy winds that pelt his scraggly sable coat.

He sees. There are those whom he could call brother and sister, down where he looks. They dig, hastily, running after rodents, as if their lives depended on it. Probably because it does. Here, they run hither and thither, scrawny and forlorn when once they called him both, the air of mockery in their voices. He looks and licks his lips.

A turning of the tail, a final goodbye. He has seen. He knows, now, what could become of the Valley below where four packs contend. Where an Alpha plots, perhaps with Twist's help, perhaps not. He knows what he must do.

The journey back is without note, save that it took months navigating through the rubble, always wary of the ever present danger in descending a precipitous path. A path that may lead to a slip, that may lead to a broken wolf's neck. A path that may lead to domination of the pack. A path that may lead to the tempering of Twist.

Metal must be forged ere it forms a weapon.

So, too, with monsters.