Ghost Lion Crag youngblood

After an arduous climb and during a nearly-as-slow descent, there was only one thing occupying July's uninterrupted thoughts: this crag was not his friend.

He was a wolf who had spent most of his life up in the mountains, and knew how to navigate their ilk quite well, but these papery outcroppings and sharp-faced trees were unfavorable for even the most adept of his kind. He felt ill at ease with his weight here; unbalanced and uncertain as he plopped down from ledge to ledge. His singular focus on not falling to his death had put him on edge, and the pale brute clenched his jaws together until he came at last to level ground.

July heaved, and glanced up over his shoulder to survey the particularly difficult path in the lowlight of dawn. He noticed almost immediately that there was a clear trail right beside the jagged way he'd taken— a sugary slope backing the hellspiked road he had risked— and July balked at the absurdity of this moment. Scoffing, the now grumpy wolf turned forward and padded through the mountain lowlands with the need to escape on his mind.

He hadn't gone far when his dreary eyes picked up on some movement ahead of him. Before he could gear himself up for a hunt, he noticed that it was fellow predator and not prey that he was spying upon. It was a younger wolf, whittled and rawboned from its time spent alone, and July— who had fared better in his solitude than this poor boy— pitied him reflexively. His approach, however, was born out of loneliness. His ears and tail lifted confidently, the latter wagging encouragingly as he took several tentative steps towards the male and boofed to steal his attention.