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

The song echoed across the volcano and then fell silent. Thuringwethil signalled that they were to move on, prompting Ephraim to fall back in line with his fellows. They traipsed across the mountain, following the slope back toward the taiga until they stopped in a place that even now bore signs of frequent occupation. There were no fresh scents, but Ephraim's keen eye picked up the shallow pits worn in the ground where bodies had frequently laid, and the prominent den was a dead giveaway.

He felt suddenly like an imposter here. Licking dry lips, the boy inched toward the edge of the pack's old rendezvous, and was none too glad to leave it behind when Thuringwethil led them away from Sleeping Dragon. Like Vercingetorix, a part of him would have liked for this to be their home instead of the cliffs by the sea, where it was often windy. Another part of him felt the weight of the past here and wanted nothing to do with it. It was heavy and tense and made his hackles prickle, and the air was thinner that what he was used to, and smelled faintly of death even now. So as they departed, he let fly a silent sigh of relief and looked ahead, eager to return to the sea and the brisk air there, the salt that sang in his blood, and his fellow Kru in Drageda.