Frostfire Ridge 너 없는 시간 속에 갇혀버린 나

The successful elk hunt had invigorated Szymon, who dragged his share of the kill away with single-minded purpose. His already sharp senses were on high alert, honed to their finest pitch — he expected to be accosted, for a fresh kill of this magnitude would tempt any predator, especially this close to winter. Salt-crusted hackles bristled, tattered ears swiveling with fierce alacrity upon his skull as he scanned the area and found, much to his dismay, that he was not alone. The scent, however, was familiar; licking his lips, he cautiously set down his burden, leathery nares fluttering as he breathed deeply of the smoke-heavy air. He was upwind from the little Groenendael, but she had made several passes through the area, leaving sign of her presence. The black-banded Cairn bent his head to the bough of an evergreen, catching sight of a tuft of feathery fur that had been snagged within the sap-sticky needles, and he parted his jaws to release a low, guttural rumble of recognition. In the next moment, she emerged from the underbrush, feathered tail whisking appealingly behind her as her tufted ears fanned delicately back against her nape. “Vesper,” he uttered, stammering a little on the first syllable, communicating with a pointed glance over his shoulder and an uneasy sway of one scarred ear that the area was not safe for loners. He lifted the chunk of elk meat and brushed past her, impatient to be safely within the ring of black stones, but her airy whine stopped him in his tracks. “What?” bespoke the irritated huff of his breath.

She led him deeper into the evergreens, and he spotted the Nine. He was experienced with mountain goats and knew them to be a formidable opponent — far more than he could handle with the sheepdog alone. In the end, it was greed, pure and simple, that urged Szymon to stash his portion of elk meat. He wanted the warm, insulated wool for Doe’s birthing den, and with the inky ingénue’s help he could easily sequester at least one of the goats using a pincer technique. She was tiny, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was weak. Still, the Cairn’s gaze was scathingly critical as it took in her waiflike frame. One of the nannies would have to do — two of the three females had short horns no longer than their ears, which meant they were yearlings, and although the hunters would still need to be wary of being kicked or bashed, there was less weaponry for the ungulates to work with. A low growl churning in his throat, Szymon gestured with a quirk of his muzzle toward them, watching the bright seablue eyes sharpen with understanding. They could herd the two further northeast, separating them further from the drove, or drive them deeper still into the forest to disorient them in the trees. It all depended on which way they broke. He lowered himself in readiness to spring.