Silvertip Mountain There's a room in a hotel in New York City

Luke's stroll along the river had led him into a forest, and as his pale form weaved between the trees the wind, which predominantly blew from the coast inland, away from him and toward the looming mountain, swirled back on itself and filled his blue nose with the strong scent of a defined pack border. The white wolf had not yet reached the immediate edge of said border, nor did he intend to, and so kept his distance as he continued a walk among the trees. Unless he was seeking audience with an Alpha to inquire about joining the pack (which he was not, for he had no interest in living on a mountain), he did not trust his presence to be well-received. It was one thing to greet anyone you met on neutral ground, but many packs fiercely defended their home range, and rightfully so. On their doorstep was not the place to expect to make friends.

As he stepped beneath a notably tall tree, a pair of crows, whom had a nest in said tree, started to caw at him relentlessly. If his scent had not been enough to alert anyone in the vicinity that he was here, their raucous cries certainly were. "Oh knock it off," Luke said in good humor, ducking as one of the crows made a dive at him, "I can climb but I can't climb that good." Unlike being in the midst of songbirds, the crows were not at all pleasant to listen to, so he continued to walk along but unhurriedly despite the dark birds and their cacophony.