Moonspear running up that hill

Something kept him close to the plains. Perhaps it was the voice that kept whispering, “Zafra!” every time he passed by. Talis didn’t know what that word meant, nor the place’s historic significance, at least on a conscious level. But something in his blood knew these lands were important… sacred, even.

He was still a nomad, though, so he traveled further afield every now and then. Today the coyote loped westward, crossing the river as quickly as possible—he saw no signs of otters, thank goodness—and admiring the fall foliage flanking his path.

When he came across the smell of a wolf pack, Talisman muttered, Nyoom! and swung south to avoid it, only to walk smack dab into another wall of scents.

And that wasn’t all. Just ahead, he saw a small figure, largely gray with a darker cape. His pale points contrasted Talis’s own bister-dipped markings. They shared an eye color and looked to be about the same size too. The wolf must be fairly young, he decided after a quick but thorough visual assessment.

His mother couldn’t be far. Talis froze in place, eyes casting around the mountainside behind the young wolf. When he saw no one, the coyote returned his eyes to the pup, ears pulling back uncertainly. Should he be out here all alone? Talis didn’t mean the little fellow any harm, but…

Hey, little dude, where’s your mom? the coyote asked, unaware of how sketchy that might sound.