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The crowd moves slowly forward, and you hold back, keeping to the rear of the procession. You feel a tap on your shoulder and turn skittishly to find Jolon's lean wolf form diminished within the shadows of his peers, hiding in plain sight.
"Fine day for a protest," the huntmaster says as he shifts his eyes from you to watch the front lines. "Best to keep your distance from the hot zones and use the crowd to your advantage. That way you can always be where you need to be at any given moment. Watch the edges, beware of flanking maneuvers, and never take anything for granted."
Before you can respond, Jolon melts back into the crowd, your eyes sliding off him unless you focus on his path. The line of the combined pacification squads stops short of the assembled wolves, some twenty feet down the street with an orderly clap of boots hitting the ground.
Ahote holds up a paw to signal a halt, and the pack slows, jostling you. Curious to see what's happening, you skirt to the side of the protesters where you can see forward.
A single human steps out from the center of the ranks and advances into the open, apparently unafraid of isolating himself in front of a packed crowd of angry werewolves in their full feral forms.
Decked out in full military regalia, the soldier's well-pressed uniform is liberally studded with colorful bars and small medals arrayed in almost impossibly perfect order. His brown hair is close-cropped and unremarkable, capping an indifferent face seemingly chiseled from stone. His eyes alone betray a sense of emotion, the fierce green orbs staring at the protesters with naked hatred. A rifle is held almost casually in his right hand, in sharp contrast to the rest of the soldiers' straps and careful grips.
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