Porcupine Ridge you only live forever in the lights you make

Something was off. He knew that Cortland had been going out and exploring more and more lately, but the golden Mayfair always came back. He didn't need to worry. Anyway, it was his right. Phocion certainly did not hold him on a tether; how could he?

But today, something felt off. He wasn't sure what it was, but whatever it was, it spurred him to follow his friend's scent away from Silvertip Mountain, down, down, headed to the range they had traversed from Bearclaw Valley. Several times he stopped, shaking his head. This was silly. He should turn back. Cortland was a man grown--he didn't need a babysitter. Each time, he kept on.

The ridge rose before him, dark against the sky. Cortland was a climber. He loved the mountains. He must have gone here for some peace. "This is silly!" Phocion said aloud, echoing the thoughts that had plagued him the entire way over. His feet moved to turn around, but something near the base of the ridge caught his eye. Something. . .off.

Brows knitting together, Phocion trotted toward the figure, pulse hammering in his throat as he got closer. It was gold. . .and still. By the time he had reached the body he was already howling urgently for @Poet, for his mind had put the puzzle pieces together.

He had fallen. Phocion pressed his head against the boy's throat--there was a pulse, though much slower than his, and he saw the slight but steady rise and fall of his lean stomach. But he was in bad shape; Phocion couldn't tell just how far he'd fallen, but it had been enough to knock him out cold. He was lucky to be alive. The priest said a breathless prayer of thanksgiving for that, as his mind raced to figure out what to do next.