Little Goat Mountain You need to let me fly alone

After taking time to investigate what he thought was a lake, then get swarmed by bugs that erupted from the tarn in his passing, Mesa had found his way to the grassy knolls of the mountain range. Here he'd found some peace and quiet from the din he'd awakened.

The grass was cool and damp as he crossed through fields of it. The scent of goats was prevalent, which made sense from an ecological point of view; their presence would ensure the soil remains healthy, which explained how green everything looked even as the season tipped towards summer.

Mesa prowled. He had spent more than a day finding his way up the mountainside and needed something to eat, which would involve tracking the resident goat herd and felling one of their kids, most likely; he was at once thankful that this mountain was not so harsh to climb, and covered in sprawling green-space.

Again the scarred warrior found himself away from his pack lands wandering far and wide. Training, he was not easilly cowled, and he preferred long range training to training in the simple training grounds of Mereo. It was nice there, he enjoyed it. The sparring pits were wonderful, but out here. He could run, he could make his muscles burn even more than in there, so he did.

It was so green here, so different from his home. He sniffed at the little wildflowers that dotted the landscape, and scented after the many prey animals that lived there. He stopped a moment to take a deep breath and it was with that deep breath that his eyes fell upon the mountain, and his heart skipped a beat. There was no scents of large packs of wolves, some lone wolves, but he could conquer that moutain, at least some of it, and himself.

Reyson looked towards the footholds and slowly, but surely began his ascent. The muscles along his shoulders and the tops of his legs burning, but he relished that pain. It meant he was still alive, he was still here. And he pushed himself onward, upward.

The wind brought a masculine scent to him.

When Mesa turned to get a better taste of it he saw something ruddy against a backdrop of green, and froze. His hackles lifted; the rest of him became rigid with uncertainty, ready for anything. There came the sound of panting breaths and the stranger was very close.

He gave a warning sound — half a bark, half a brooding growl that carried with it — then silence, watching.

Reyson continued upward. A quick exhale and inhale back again. The ground had begun to even out. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little disappointed.

He didn't see the other, too intent upon his movements. But he did whip his head up at the warning. Blue eyes honed in on the youth. He kept his neutral expression, and body. He could easily transition to aggressive if he needed too.

Hello was his statement and question.

If Mesa intended to stay upon this mountain he would have to ensure he was the only man worthy of it; so when the other spoke, Mesa judged him. He watched the muscle on the man's body for lines of tension. He eyed the red fur and wondered what might make it prickle; or, what might draw this stranger's teeth from hiding.

He gave the man a chuff of a greeting which sounded derisive, somehow.

The white wolf's posture became nearly regal, with his tail high and arching. In this way he claimed the mountain for himself; there was challenge in his gaze, which he affixed to the man's face with a hard stare.

Reyson was a man of action, and forethought usually. Reyson felt the man studying assessing and making assumptions.

There was no pack here and when the other male began to prickle. Reyson's own ire went up. He shifted from neutrality to on guard immediately.

The mans chuff sealed it. A low, deep growl began in Reyson's chest.

We gonna have a problem?

He snarled out. He was sick to fricking death of all the packs with piss poor borders, and claims. It was enough to drive him mad.