Biography
Echo of the past was born on a hilly island with lush meadows and green floodplains. In the old days, life was good - according to the stories the grey muzzles told. Apparently, there had been plenty of space to roam free and undisturbed, the great packs of once being able to prosper and spread out and about. Living like kings and queens they had ruled majestically over the island, feared and worshipped by all the lesser animals, free of strife or major concerns. Then - mankind had arrived.
From the first day of their appearance, they had brought trouble within their wake. Settling in natural habitats, cutting down trees, changing courses of running water, digging, burning, polluting. Already in old times, they had been able to do miraculous things, forcing their will on wood, stone and fire, making them obedient for their course. Adversaries which could not been taken easily by the wolf folk. And adversaries they became. Throughout the years, living space got more and more sparse. Free game disappeared, livestock was bred, taking over the meadows and plains. Incidents between man and wolf grew, as the latter had to fight back for survival. In the ongoing conflict, the packs decreased rapidly, losing members consistently and expiring fast.
Thunder rumbled foreboding, and accompanied the lashing rain of the grey day, when her pack lounged the final attack. The undertaking was desperate, a last proud resistance, all or nothing. It was either starving to death or dying in combat, and most pack members preferred the latter. But the frantic efforts were in vain, the wolves did not stand a chance. One by one, they fell victim to the relentless cruelty of men, which were closing in with their tools and beasts, pushing the last survivors over a ridge into the heavily swollen river underneath. Echo of the past was one of them. She lost control immediately, losing orientation and getting separated from the few who fell down with her. Being at the end of her strength and her willpower, her struggles got weaker. Finally she stopped fighting at all, welcoming the blissful blackness that took over. The whitewater seized her, the watercourse flushed her, the sea nearly drowned her.
But only nearly. She could not remember how long she had been in water, or how she made it to the foreign shore. She could not remember how long she was lying in the sand, dreadfully wishing for the nightmare to end or death to take her. Finally - as neither the one nor the other happened - she got up, and carried on. Since that day, she is adapting and slowly accepting her fate - but not without a solid hatred for mankind and all their doings within her heart.
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Spring 
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