Spotted Eagle Mountain What you know about rocking a wolf on your noggin?

From the thorny orchard, Wylla travelled north. Whether because it reeked like swamp and butthole or because she had heeded at least some of what Elwood graciously told her, she avoided the sprawling forest in the middle of the lowlands and headed for the mountains instead. The rolling foothills were horrible enough to travel on for a wolf raised on the coast, but the mountain proved another task altogether. It was only the smell of something questionable that kept her moving upward. By the time she located the dead mule deer—an obvious victim of a mountainous misstep and heavily picked over by scavengers—lungs and muscles alike were screaming for rest.

The vagabond collapsed on the carcass, sending a flock of crows clawing for the sky, and immediately plunged her face into its dried out abdominal cavity. There wasn't anything left that wasn't frozen, shriveled and tough as jerky, but she chewed on old gristle and cracked bone alike, sucking as much nutrition from the gross old corpse as she could. Normally, such a royal personality as herself would never sink to such levels, but Wylla was a wolf before she was a priss, and anyway, she was starving. She smacked her lips greedily and tore at the frugal carcass, making no effort to mask her presence.