Little Goat Mountain Wayfarer

A light snow fell, dusting the air in a thin radiance from the rising sun. Though the smallest of the mountains he had seen thus far, Winter’s Wake felt no absence of pride to stand upon it. The trees here, evergreens to the knowledgeable, did not suffer too greatly from abscission, and the preyscent was thick even in the snow.

This humble peak would be bountiful hunting grounds year-round, and a place to shelter in the heat of summer. He traveled in an investigatory lope, exploring the gentle slopes for signs of discordance.

Fenrith moved through the snow with a quiet, loping grace, his slender frame weaving between the evergreen sentinels that lined the mountainside. His breath curled in the cold air, a fleeting thing, gone before it could linger.

He’d been padding along, distracted by the soft crunch of snow beneath his paws and the rhythm of his own thoughts, when something sharp struck through the stillness—a scent.

Fenrith froze mid-step, head lifting as his nose worked the crisp air. It was faint but unmistakable—wolf. His ears twitched forward, brown eyes narrowing as he scanned the tree line ahead. Careful, instinct coaxed. Fenrith moved again, his steps slower now as he picked his way through the frost-dappled underbrush.