Silvertip Mountain watch the oceans rising high

Laughter rang in the woman's ears as she outwitted even the mountain itself, for soon her destination would arrive, and there she would divert her course and hurtle headlong into Neverwinter's welcoming maw. The female far below, likely still standing in confusion and trembling at the awesome speed and capability of the wolf who had outsmarted her, would never forget the encounter they had had. Jinx, knowing this, would then be proud to return to her Captains and report to them what she had found: vagrants on the mountainside, numbering merely two, who were as slow-witted as their failed claim would make them seem.

However, she had miscalculated. When suddenly from the corner of her eye she caught the sudden materialisation of a black-cloaked figure, and from the trees burst the very wolf she had sought to outsmart, her heart hammered into confused nervousness; how? She had only a moment to consider it, for she was moving now, swinging her body so that Tonravik would catch only her hindlimb and be put at a disadvantage of distance, with all the power of Jinx's kicking feet placed at her front… But all of a sudden, her false surefootedness failed her, and her forepaw faltered on the landscape. The ground beneath slid under her foot, and carried her with it, so that she had skidded directly into the charging bull's path.

She felt the thud of bodies rock deep into her soul, and the graze of teeth against the side of her neck, but everything else she was numb to, for the force of the Tartok woman had forced her feet from the earth. She was sent backward into a roll, which quickly gained speed and would have sent Jinx into a free-fall to her death upon the foothills, had not some Divine Intervention — as she would forever regard it — placed directly in her path a solid spruce. Her flank smashed against it with the kind of breakneck speed that should have assured broken ribs, but somehow, miraculously did not. It would leave the nastiest bruise that she had ever endured, and her side would be tender for months, but somehow, by some miracle, she would not need to fear the consequences of broken bones. The impact did, however, force the air whooshing from her lungs and paralysed them, so that in fear she was left heaving for breath that would not come, incapable of rising and fleeing from the black death that surely was bearing down on her even now.

These terms, if she could think of them, would be considered utterly unfair by the Mambo, regardless of the fact she had begun them on her own unfair terms; to kill a wolf who was prone and could not hope to defend itself was the highest form of sin; but she could not have voiced it, not without air, nor without wits about her to think it.