Silvertip Mountain alex, you gotta fend for yourself

backdated to 6/9 or so

Fengari was a crescent in the sky, almost at his lowest strength. Luckily for him--and for all the children of the night--the asteria lived for these nights, shining brighter than ever to guide the way of any travelers, wanderers, those that were lost. . .or seeking to be found. The white priest wormed his way down the side of the mountain, spending the evening hunting for game in the forest that blanketed the base of the crag.

Hunting was a mixed bag for Phocion. His white pelt, unless against the backdrop of snow and ice, was a detriment; he was a pale beacon in the woods. His small frame and weight, however, enabled him to step quietly and nimbly, even in crackling leaves. If he could keep himself well-hidden enough, and used his silence to his advantage, he could sneak up prey without being noticed.

It usually turned into a waiting game, which he was okay with.

He was on the northwest side of the mountain, near the glacier; if one found a clearing near the edge of the trees, they'd have a nice view of the ocean. He could hear the rushing of it, the gentle beating of waves against the shore. It reminded him of finding Cortland again, and he smiled, hidden like a thief in the brush. There was a rabbit's den nearby, and his eyes were trained on the hole, ready for one to venture out.

Atomsk, a great beast for all intents and purposes, did not have the luxury of being small and soundless as he made his way across the bearded face of a broad mountain. He was a herd-stalker, which didn't entail the same degree of stealth that hunting smaller prey required. And he wasn't hunting now, having recently come from a ram kill he'd made the day before, so there was even less reason for him to be quiet as he tramped about in search of a place to hunker down. It was cool here, and had the interesting scent of seasalt on the air as the coast loomed beyond— and if he had to be alone for the night, then here was an ideal place to shelter himself.

He didn't notice at all that he was likely disturbing the hunt of a nearby predator.

The cool quiet of the night was shattered by a loud rustling nearby, and Phocion's ears pricked, face contorting in an irritated scowl. His icy eyes darted around, trying to figure out the source of the noise, and eventually lighted on a great gray brute, milling about. Tail lashing, he burst from the brush, less in a haste to confront the intruder, more accepting the hunt to be over--for now.

"Looking for a place to sleep?" His voice was colder than he intended, punctuated with distaste at having to leave his quarry behind. Nevertheless, the pale priest dipped his head in a nod, gaze flashing in the gleam of the stars. "What brings you to this mountain?"

Wolves came, now and then, but the only mainstays were himself, Cortland, and Poet. He had not yet found more friends or followers; it was little company he kept, these days. He began to mentally size the man up, assessing his strengths. . .and potential weaknesses, as well.

Atomsk tensed as a slim, ghostly figure burst from the cover of the brush to confront him. The large male stood idly in response, his frame rigid in preparation to defend himself, but as there was no fear in him, he didn't react to the sudden presence with a violent rebuking. He couldn't help but note the male's tone, and wonder what he had to do with that, but the thought was pushed away as the wolf addressed him cordially enough -- despite the notes of irritation tipping his fur and frosting his voice.

"You're correct to assume," he replied flatly, yet unsure if he himself wanted to be cordial with the handsome dove or not. "Just looking for a spot to put my back to while I rest."

Phocion was quick to anger, but in his adolescence, he had clung to ire, not letting it go. As he'd gotten older, he had learned to let it slip away; it did no good to remain upset over trivial matters. The frost in his eyes dissipated, and the faintest of friendly smiles graced his muzzle as he nodded, accepting the answer given to him.

"My tribe makes its home upon this mountain," he explained, glancing upwards toward the summit. "But we are amenable to travelers, so long as they keep the peace." He gave a gracious bow of his head, snowy fur gleaming in the moonlight. "My name is Phocion."

The man was bigger and stronger; if he had come to make trouble, Phocion was not altogether sure whether he could hold him off. Perhaps with the help of Poet, but with Cortland injured. . . Still, he saw no malice in this man's eyes, only weariness, and so he kept his posture firm but relaxed--for now.