Ghost Lion Crag The blood is the life... and it shall be mine.

A voice, sudden in the silence, startled her. Starbuck backpeddaled, the action similar to a shying horse. She had thought the voice was that of the tree (for trees had voices, she now knew) protesting her attempted thievery. It was only when she searched her surroundings that she found the voice's true owner. He was a shadow of a male, fur deep and dark as the night, interrupted only by the distinguished graying of his muzzle. An older gentleman, but still handsome. 

In truth she had already marked the branch as a lost cause, but this wolf was larger than she and might have better luck. Require it? No, she said. Though I would appreciate it. Starbuck was convinced that if she could only get the branch off of the tree she could carry it home and... do something with it. It felt important to her, important and filled with magic.