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A broken, sticky branch lay conspicously in the middle of the dark path. An hour ago, it had been happily taking in nutrition from it's source, the tree, and doing it's best to contribute to the overall cause by using the synthetic quality of light to manufacture and produce sap.

Sadly, those days came to an abpubt end on that tragic day, and as it lay snapped and forlorn on the forest floor, a dark shadow passed quickly overhead.

The branch had nothing left to do but putter out the end of it's days, in sad silence, not a noise it could make, and no one to hear it even if it could.

The wolf paid little attention to the melodramatic branch, as it passed by, only noted that it too shared a distinct smell that he had been picking up and honing along the way. Six pink piggies, one with a musty scent, at least two had urine lingering odors, maybe three, one smelled like old cheese and one had a distinct smell of fried meat. One little piggie, his little piggie, smelled only of blood and sweat.

The wolf quickened his pace and took extra care to keep his shoulders square with the path. He wasn't worried about losing his target. His ears perked stiff, his tail worked in fluid motion with his trotting hind and front-quarters, creating the perfect harmony of speed, balance and quiet. He was on the scent now, and although the group were still fifty or sixty trees in front of him, and he had no way of seeing them, he knew exactly where each one was by the sound of their thunderous footstetps, and how fast they were going.

In minutes, the wilting sun would send it's last full rays of despairing light into the forest, each beam singularly visible as a bolt of lightning, and then as the sun elipsed behing the horizon, each beam, cut off from it's source would melt and twist and dim, creating a murky world of false shadows and deceptive movement.

It was for this half-light that the wolf waited.

To amuse himself in the meantime, he began sizing up his opposition, testing the waters to see how close he could come to the fat little piggie without making him squeal. He crouched low and moved stealthily through the trees, this time on the right, next time on the left, getting closer every time. When he got just close enough, sometimes less than a tree length away, he would paw a stick on the ground until it snapped and then watch as the boy darted his head in all directions, eyes searching the trees wildly, breath quickened, stumbling down the path all the while. The wolf enjoyed watching the boys futile resolve to stay courageous melt away with the sunlight.

This was all part of it. This was like pre-heating the oven.

It was getting good now, the light was getting just right and, the wolf noticed, the group had picked up the pace a notch as well, leaving the blood piggie that much farther behind, limping along in with short, panicky breaths, clutching his pocket compulsively.

He sat motionless now, letting the group gain ground in front of him, even losing sight of them. After a few moments he bounded off the side of the path and up a small embankment onto a large boulder. He shook his fur once again, flinging droplets of flesh-decaying saliva out of his panting mouth like a broken sprinkler, bared his grisly yellow fangs, and howled a particualrly menacing howl; a howl that, in hindsight, the wolf was quite proud of.