Sleeping Dragon i have watched holy men immolate on the banks of Nile

Hush had been wary of the mountain since its first rumbling, staying far far away from its peak, remaining at its foot. It was colder there, but he would rather be cold than dropped into the Dragon's belly. He had no reason why the Dragon was no longer Sleeping, other than, perhaps, the presence of the huge moon. He was no spiritual wolf, had no religion or creed, but something about that day changed everything in ways he could not explain, and in ways no one else could explain.

Heda had gone and come back, to his confusion. He could not ask, but he figured that she was alright now; there was no fuss made over her. Life, he supposed, went back to normal. Until today.

The mountain, the Dragon, rumbled and roared again. He was not on its slopes, but he still felt it. The mute squeaked, realizing with fear that the rest of them were still up there, still vulnerable to the Dragon's firey breath. He heard Heda's howl and ran to her, belting out his bark-cough-howl as much as he could, telling her that he was here, he was alive, he could help. He worried for the pups.

As he ran, he saw Portia, the healer. There was something wrong with her, something wrong with her leg. He ran to her, nudging her gently, urging her to move, move, move. He could be her crutch if she needed it, but she needed to get away.