Little Goat Mountain Are we faded

She lived on a mountain, a much more formidable one than this tiny afterthought. She had been born and raised on the slopes of a summit. As Wildfire slid to a stop at the foot of a steep decline and lay there, stunned, she abstractly acknowledged the irony of the situation. Painstakingly, she rolled onto her belly, slowly moving each of her limbs to check for broken bones. She hurt all over from the impact, yet as she gently rose onto all fours, there were no particular pain points. She hesitated, then gave herself an experimental shake to get the dust and dirt off her fur, as well as feel out the rest of her body. Yes, she definitely smarted, yet hopefully she hadn't done any permanent damage.

Shaking her head at herself, Wildfire began to walk again, slowly and carefully, only to stop short when the breeze delivered the pungent scent of mountain goats. She turned, tipping her muzzle into the air to discern the scent's origin. Although she was trying to climb downward and head back in the direction of home, she instead scrambled to the nearest high point and scanned her surroundings. There, she thought when her amber eyes clapped upon the small herd of white ungulates milling in the cleft between Little Goat Mountain and the towering Sawtooth Spire.

Excitement raced through her, chased quickly after by disappointment. There was no way she could attempt hunting one of them by herself, especially not on these unfamiliar slopes. A sigh of resignation escaped her as she slowly sat, unable to tear her eyes away yet. Even if there was no hope of capturing one—and even though she fancied herself a small game hunter—she would not pass up this opportunity to watch and learn.