((A note that any and all accents used in any of this are not 100% mockups of real-world accents. I can't do them accurately. So I mix and mash.))

...

"Roigh', see 'ere, wot if... wot if, yeh see, yeh had nae skin. Yeh had nae skin, an' everything wot touched yeh, touched yeh heart. Yeh couldna esscape anythin'. Everything wot yeh heard, wot yeh thought, wot even o'ers felt, touched yeh heart. Yeh felt it all.

Wot then? How does a person deal with thot sort o' thing? Do 'ey try to find some way around it? Or do 'ey just... feel?"

A little like dying, went the thought process. Drowning in experience. It couldn't be any other way, if one had no skin.

...

Human faces get old and wizened with age, hair dying into a grey shag, wrinkles condensing around their eyes and mouths. Wolf faces don't. Wolf fur greys a little bit, but most wolves are dead before their pelts die. The oldest have silvered muzzles and scars putting fake wrinkles in the waning gloss of their fur. They die in battle or in the hunt before age has gotten enough of a grip to put fog over their yellow eyes - long before time has stiffened their bones or beset their minds with cobwebs.

This wolf was so old that he moved stiffly, like an old human, and that his once-black fur had almost all gone lifelessly grey. His gold eyes were hazed with too many years, but the mind behind them showed no slowing of wit.

"'Ware the beast, boy," he croaked, lifting a handpaw to settle the withered thing on my shoulder. His knuckles were large and twisted, the blunt claws tipping his digits cracked and flaking. His muzzle was inches from my face, but I couldn't recoil from the musk of death long cheated - the scent clung to his breath. "'Ware it, an' it won't kill ye... don't hunt it, an' it won't hunt ye..."

He paused, looked me straight in the eye, and then his colorless muzzle twisted into a yellow-toothed grin. With his other handpaw, he pressed a fine stone spearhead into my lax hands. "...but ye can't ne'er stop hunting. The hunt is Death, lookin' ye in the face every time."

I knew the words now, knew what he was getting at, and I mouthed along with him as he wheezed, "...but the hunt is life itself, too."

The wolf realized I'd lip-synched his words, and he smiled crookedly again. One fang was missing. "Then ye know, boy, that I'm already dead."

I nodded soberly. He gave my shoulder a weak push, his elbow popping audibly. "Go hunt, boy." The smile had faded from his face. "Go live."