Blacktail Deer Plateau buried in the dark

Sorry I think I wrote a novel. No need to match, I just got a weird burst of muse!

It was easier for him to traverse these craggy, pebble-strewn paths than initially thought; perhaps all that time spent on his own had paid off in some way? He was no longer the chubby little boy afraid of his own shadow. Unable to run without feeling the girth of his belly against the ground, or the burn in the back of his throat from the mere thought of motion. Now, having long ago passed from the awkward adolescent stage into one of prime adulthood (although Tryphon wouldn't ever be fully aware of this), the boy — the man — had become a jack-of-all-trades, more or less. He could handle the mountains, and the swamps, and the empty meadows. The forests made him nervous for some inexplicable reason — and really, his only remaining obstacle was his fear of the ocean. This place was not so frightening to him now that he had hardened himself.

If only he knew how closely he resembled his father in these moments. 

He caught his paw against a half-buried pile of shale as he climbed, and it tumbled down the ridge, pitter-pattering like sharp rain. Tryphon's ears turned as if to flatten when he heard it, but he pressed on. He wasn't sure if the plateau was what he sought (for the view of the stars) or if he should find some place more contained; his mind flashed to an image of an icey cavern and a pair of strangers looming over him — and in denying that memory, in not allowing it to take root, he made his decision to stay out in the open. Yet when he found his path winding higher and higher, he became skeptical of the sky above. It looked more moody the closer he got.

When a flash of movement pulled his attention down from the silver clouds, he almost got tangled in his own paws, but saved himself in time by gripping the ledge and leaning back; his ears shot forward as the pale stranger spoke, and while at first he was watching her with surprise and interest, he saw the flash of her teeth and ducked away from it, expecting some kind of assault. He may have inherited the body of a man and the spirit of the north, but not the dominance of his forgotten father.

At first he wasn't sure if he should say anything in regards to the question. Tryphon couldn't remember ever being here before, but that didn't mean much. He'd traveled extensively. But when he thought about it — and somewhat timidly glanced her way, almost apologetic for his knee-jerk reaction to such a deferential expression on her face — he could not recall ever belonging here, as one might expect from a family.

No, he finally droned, sullen but... There was something in his voice that was almost hopeful, or maybe just eager, that he could not hold back. Tryphon was not a social butterfly; he was barely a wolf. But he was compelled to turn the question back upon her, this curious woman who seemed just as eager for company as himself: What was it like? 

Truthfully he just wanted to hear her voice — any voice, or any sound — which would make this place seem less... empty.