Ouroboros Spine Shadows

The clouds, thick and heavy with rain, made it hard to discern how late or early in the day it was. In the drear of that low noon, a black wolf ascended the face of a colossal basin. His steady trot was dogged and stiff against the inconsistent rise of churlish gales. His head was set level to his shoulders, and his nose pointed forward with a missile's intensity. The rain would start up again soon, he knew, but it would not stop his hunt.

It was an injured ram he pursued; an unfortunate beast whose bloody scent tainted the air for miles around. He had been its undoing— rending open its flank as he had— but he was a patient hunter. He wouldn't rush what was to come anyway. He saw no need to expend his energy dealing another fatal blow. For the further the bighorn ran from him, the closer it came to death.