Silvertip Mountain Warm me up!

Ever-present drizzle and torrential downpours were hardly thrilling Mason either. His coat was inconceivably thin – you only had to take one look at his Dad to know that he only appeared to have inherited half of the gene for fur thickness. Mason found this inconvenient and annoying. Drizzle tended to settle on his fur, separating the strands. On a normal wolf (like Dad) this would leave cool-looking spikes along the mane and back and belly. For Mason, the silky threads lifted and moved from each other as though repelled by magnets. His long fur appeared to fluff out until it stood on end. 

A beautiful voice cut into his thoughts as he trotted along a mountain path, and his paws inadvertently stumbled against each other in their haste to turn in the direction of the voice. He pressed into a veritable gallop, speeding with all of his youthful strength through the sparse vegetation towards Zaria. When he determined he was not very far away at all, Mason slowed to what he hoped was a suave lope and attempted to rein in his breathing which had become wild and ragged. He stopped for a moment to reach back and try to smooth down some of the sections of his cotton-wool fur. He then moved on until he rounded a large boulder and spotted her. 

Dancing green eyes benefitted a small and sharp face. She was such a slight and slender wolf which meant she was much nearer in size to himself than his Dad - where she was taller due to his unnaturally short legs, Mason appeared to be nearly as long as her – a testament to the low yet long stature he would eventually grow into. Mason moved towards her, his eyes fixed on her pretty chin. He was used to pale colours in the fur, but he did not often see mottled hues of brown and grey except on his own sock and peppered along his mane. Mason’s tail became a windmill of wags and he announced his arrival with a bright grin and a “Hullo, Zaria. How are you?”