Beneath the blood moon, a wolf howled. His song, an honest lament. The night listened. It was a solitary howl, solitary as the moon. The wolf sought truth, sought authenticity. Its voice echoed through the stillness. The untouched snow bore only one set of tracks. His. The world and he, chaotic and impenetrably profound. All around: ice, silence, darkness. A silver muzzle pointed at the red sphere. The price of lunar romance, the price of mysticism: solitude. Terminal solitude. A whistle swept the valley. His secret lay with the blood moon. His heart screamed in the cold.