Silvertip Mountain look well, o wolves

shardul traveled north, across the expanse of mountainous terrain alternately jagged and smooth. here he slew a goat, a rock-dweller, fleet of foot. it was a kill blessed by luck, but the proud khan thought only of his own prowess as he dragged its body into the lee of a boulder to feed.

his progress was slow; the silver god remained beside the body until there was little left but the slowly bleaching bones and the short-furred pelt rotting into oblivion. for three days shardul gorged himself and slumbered, confident in the knowledge that none would dare approach him.

when the brazen beast arrived at the clay feet of yet another peak, his appetite had gone unsated for two sunrises, two sunsets. it was dusk when he lifted his broad muzzle into the air and took the mountain's scent.

here were wolves, always wolves; a purring growl of disgust flickered in his throat. but here also was the tender fragrance of young cubs, little more than tabaqui. their aroma honed the impatient edge of hunger sharpening in his gut, and shardul moved without the hesitation of another moment across the borders and into the darkening shadows. pale eyes searched for the little ones as a cobra might slither in want of a nest heavy in downy fledglings.