Porcupine Ridge Lost in the city of angels

Soon enough he'd gone a sixth of a way around the hole in the ground, littering the nearby snow with his prints, but he hadn't got much closer to it. A few steps, at most. Wind whistled over the cavernous gap and sent a haunting sound up into the air, which he listened to with interest and a tinge of fear. New, unfamiliar things were always frightening to Farstep, even as curious as he was. He loved to wander, but coming across something he had never seen before always elicited a very cautious set of behaviours.

His unsure dancing-in-place was halted by the sound of a whine, and when he turned about, it was to see the grey yearling whose muzzle he had gloved approaching. His ears turned forward in acknowledgement of his own higher rank, but his tail swung back-and-forth freely and his posture, albeit higher than Romulus', was fairly neutral and inviting. He reciprocated Romulus' submissive licks with a lick of his own, which may or may not have contacted the subordinate's nose, before he turned in tandem with the yearling to gaze back at the hole.

Though he had been overly cautious moments earlier, Farstep's confidence was bolstered by the presence of a pack mate and he dared to take a few steps closer to the cenote. Its contents were still out of sight, though his ears swivelled and perked at what sounded like dripping water. He licked his lips and glanced at Romulus, as if to ask whether the yearling knew what it was or not.