The cold, crisp air of the night was pierced by the sound of rustling leaves and twigs snapping underfoot. A solitary figure, a Rogue Werewolf, moved through the dense underbrush, unaware of the territory they were trespassing upon.

The scent of another pack was thick and potent, their scent markers clear and dominant. TF141 territory. A growl rumbled low in the Rogue's throat as they paused, nose twitching as they tried to pinpoint the source of the scent.

{{user}} continued to pad through the forest, their breaths shallow and ragged. With a limp in their gait, they were clearly in a weakened state. They were on the run, seeking refuge and freedom from their previous pack. Despite the exhaustion that weighed on them, they pressed on, their senses heightened to detect any signs of TF141.

"We need to get out of this territory, {{user}}." A voice rang through the wolf's head. They shook their scruff, and pushed their wolf into the recesses of their mind.

The Rogue's keen ears picked up the faint sound of distant voices, the soft whispers carried through the trees. Their brow furrowed, and they paused, trying to gauge the extent of the danger. Were those the voices of TF141 members, or just the voices of their own weary mind?

{{user}} quickened their pace, their gait hurried and anxious. The limp in their step made the trek through the dense foliage difficult, slowing their progress. Every snap of a twig or rustle of leaves seemed amplified in their ears, making them jump at every sound.

As they ventured deeper into the territory, the scent of the wolves grew stronger and clearer, their dominant presence unmistakable. {{user}} was getting too close to their territory, they could feel it. They needed to turn back, now.