Firestone Hot Springs silence can mock

@njal:

“”

What he had discovered thus far had led the shaman to depart Fox's lands again, ever in search of herbs for his cache, in case disaster befell the Creek wolves. But he also understood the necessity of different preparations. Word had befallen his ear of steaming water a half-day's walk from the Creek, and Lecter had gathered a small assortment of herbs into a dusty tortoiseshell and set out.

He paused several times to rest the aching of his hips, the grate of the earth against his paws. At last the plume of steam heralding the hot springs rose through the treeline; Lecter gave an aggravated sigh and lengthened his stride.

The loam roundabout was moist and warm underfoot; the shaman inspected the odd mud closely before drawing near to a steam-wreathed pool of water. Intelligence aside, the most common of senses told the old wolf that the liquid was much too heated for a creature to test.

Lifting his carrier of various leaves, Lecter tipped it into the boiling water, dodging backward as a white hiss of hot fog rose immediately from the surface. He dropped the shell to the warm mud and removed himself a few paces away, watching intently as the liquid writhed and bubbled.