The Heartwood from which of this oak

WTF. ME > WORK!! :|

The first hint that something was amiss came when the birds -- whose cheery melodies had sprinkled the warm summer air with delicate beauty, like the daintiest of windchimes -- fell silent. They were aware of what took place beneath their airy perches, and now watched with bated breath to witness how the next moments would unfold. Sigrún paused, wary at the sudden silence, for she knew that it generally meant trouble was fast on its way. Her senses went on high alert, scrutinizing her surroundings for any sign of danger.

She didn't have to wonder for long. From amidst the underbrush and greenery nearby, there came a deep, sinister rumble, a growl of such malevolence that it elicited a visceral reaction in Sigrún. Involuntarily, her hackles bristled as high as they would go, the entire line of her back from mane to tail a stark-white cape of vertical quills. Savage, primal fear tore at her heart and screeched on the inside, urging her to run -- run like she'd never run before in her life -- but the stubborn, proud (and possibly stupid) side of her forced her to remain rooted in place. An instant later, a male voice rumbled from the shadows, as ominous and threatening as the blackest of thunderheads. A nice day for a walk in the woods, it purred darkly, before a white wolf emerged from the foliage. He was quite a bit larger than she, with fur every bit as pristine as hers -- save for a peppering of black on his mane and shoulders -- and simmering amber eyes that gleamed with malice and ill intent. Sigrún did not respond. Her eyes, as hard and frigid as Nordic sea ice, drilled defiantly into his. A harsh growl thundered in her chest before crawling up her throat to burst from her lips in a hideous snarl, and her lip curled upward to reveal a row of savage fangs.