Running was a good pastime for a werewolf and there was bot a law prohibiting them to enter Granada. They also haunted the people of this city, that was lucky enough to be located below the Forest of Shadows, many times. This was too a day like others, nothing unusual was supposed to happen.
The four of them had come down in their most natural shape, they saw an old house at the northern side of the city and made it their target. A roar was heard by all of them, they confirmed in their own language, they ran down, in the blink of an eye the house was surrounded. Despite of being animals, friends understood one another keeping each other's back.
He saw Morris heading first towards the door, because he was the spirit of their group, the one who kept them together. It was a very short te to realize what was happening before they ran hearing the shots of the rifles, the instinct made their legs move, not the heart, not the mind. When they managed to turn their heads back, they saw Morris fallen in a hole in front of the door. They tried to surround and kill all the ten people who stood around their friend, but before they could do anything it was already too late. The guns shot in a chorus and what was heard after was only a last high bark of fear from the man that used to be their leader. Roars of grief came out of their mouths, the fur around their eyes was wet with tears. They wanted to kill them all, but they saw the two legged monsters shoot towards them.
They ran back into their territories, the forest felt empty for them, the pain in their hearts was hard and pure. Because the four of them were friends, united together for a very long time, many memories were on their minds. The sad walk of the wolves was of the ones who came as a whole and went back only in three.