Silvertip Mountain this i know: the snow won't fall on me

The closer to the heavens, the closer to god. So said the tribe he had joined many moons ago, and it had stayed with him since then. That was part of the reason why he had chosen a mountain for their home: it extended into the clouds, the stars. An ascent to paradise.

He himself climbed frequently, but it was a small surprise to see the golden Mayfair's pelt so high, looking at the skies. With a soft bark to let him know he was coming--lest Cortland startle and tumble into the abyss again--Phocion trotted up the slope, coming to the boy's side and pushing his nose into the ruff of his neck. He smiled, a silent expression, then pulled away, looking out at the sky.

The clouds had gathered, and rain was beginning to fall. A large drop hit him directly on the nose, and he shook his head, sniffling before looking over at Cortland.

"How are you?" he asked gently, his mouth still curved upwards, ever so slightly. He was worried about being this high if a storm was approaching; at the first sign of lightning, they would take cover immediately.