Sleeping Dragon we always tear our Gods to bits and eat the bits we like

It was probably a prosperous mountain once, but it offered little more than death now. Wind and weather had long blown away the majority of the evidence and some regrowth had happened, but here and there Ephraim could locate piles of ash pressed into crevices or piled against walls where the wind never made a mark. He passed along a ridge overlooking a river to the south, tall ears twitching nervously. The place still smelled of fire and it made his skin crawl.

Best to leave a desolate place like this sooner than later. The coywolf peered back over his shoulder for his comrades and flicked his tail when he didn't see them. Off exploring elsewhere, he guessed. Heda's trail went on ahead and the wiry boy picked up his pace, slinking along the mountainside until he caught sight of her dark form. She seemed focused on the distance.

He padded slowly up behind her and reclined gingerly onto his haunches. "What happened here, Heda?" Ephraim couldn't help but ask. He'd heard some of it in passing, but not all of it.