Nova Peak the bloodied hatchet

The burn of his lungs and the biting wind on his face as he moved paw-over-paw up the tiresome slope reminded him of his northern home. Prophet thought of it often, of his siblings younger and older and his imperial parents, but exploration was the call of his heart now and he would not dream of returning until he had exhausted the whole world beneath his feet. Still, he embraced the familiarity of a brisk, high wind and a chill under his toes and continued to climb ever higher up the lone mountain.

It was a strange thing, to be a mountain all alone, but Prophet couldn't fathom geology enough to question how the land had heaved to produce only one peak. Further to the east, near to his usual haunt, was a sizeable mount, and south there was a squat one, and even further beyond that, the hazy outline of a range against the sky. There were many mountains yet to explore, and one on its own was less of a task than a chain of them, so he climbed readily.

At least, he did until the fresh scent of another wolf, a female, drew his head upward. He had reached the ridge from another side at about the same time she had, and he stood on the precipice, staring across at what was an indubitable mutant. She didn't have the look of any normal wolf of his acquaintance: her shoulders were hunched like a grizzly's, her legs thick and uncomely, her ribs hidden beneath a hefty amount of muscle or fat (probably both given her size), and her face and muzzle square like a man's. He couldn't help but to imagine her fur lacked the sleek quality of his species, and instead, boasted a coarse roughness like a bear's as well.

She was intimidating to the Arctic male, that was for certain, but there was also something just ridiculous about how large and hefty she was compared with almost every other large wolf he had ever met—panther-esque, all of them, while this one looked more like a boulder— and that took the edge off his reasonable fear.