Ghost Lion Crag The blood is the life... and it shall be mine.

The crag felt haunted. No, not haunted (and this she spoke aloud to herself) but faded, like life had once thought to cling here but changed its mind. There were the signs of it everywhere. With a wolf's keen senses Starbuck noticed small prey skittering between the rocks, but save for their scratching and the wind there was silence. She had entered from the north, drawn by a place that was not full of magic but notably devoid of it.

The ragged spruces were bent and contorted, and Starbuck imagined that they were tortured and unsatisfied souls given shape. This sent a shiver crawling up her back, and she doubled her step as she walked past them until-

she gasped, feeling the sudden flow of magic, and was drawn to one of the spruces. Carefully, carefully, Starbuck picked her way among the sharp ridges and fallen rocks of the crag. So focused was she that she failed to notice the resting wolf nearby as she sprung up, teeth latching around a branch that looked inclined to break off. She wanted it, for it was a beacon in a dead zone. She would take it home, if only she could get it to snap off. But her weight was too little, and the branch did not break and she did not let go. So she dangled for a moment, thrashed a bit to see if that would convince it, and then dropped back to the ground, disappointed.