Ghost Lion Crag augiauyak

It was the shelter of the low-laying scrub that coaxed her across the uneven terrain. More so than the scent of game or the prospect of staying hidden once she had discovered signs of something sinister along the way. All around her there were spruce trees, but they grey haphazardly and in a manner that suggested ill health, a certain strangeness that she was too obtuse to notice. She saw trees where there were trees and that was all. The fact that they clung so tightly to the rock face or grew in blunted and twisted styles did not matter to her. They afforded shade from the summer light. It was enough.

However, the wolf just managed to make it under a twisting mess of stabbing branches before she realized she was confining herself. No animal, domesticated or wild, would ever limit themselves in such a way on purpose (then again, many denned in the earth when the time called for it, but perhaps her instant reaction to this precise situation is why she was childless). The wolf felt the pressing of branches against her back. They dragged along the fur between her shoulders, and in a scramble she reversed.

As she emerged again, she was wild-eyed and agitated. She was distracted by her small blunder yet eager to get on her way, to put it behind her. So with a shake of her shoulders to rid herself of excess nervous energies, she began to descend the slope again. There was no point in seeking shelter here. It was safe for smaller creatures, maybe.

She was striding easily across the mountain's dipping slope when she caught nose of wolf scent and abruptly halted, and then began to pivot her ears and head in search of more information. The wind had changed already and so she could not follow it—or the opposite, escape from it—and was left to wonder.