Dragoncrest Cliffs an elephant named eloise

I rolled for Silkie noticing the wolverine and doing a chomp.

The pale dragon’s ears flattened miserably against his skull as he tromped through the cold and the wet, his face and eyes stinging from the abuse of wildly whipping treelimbs and ferns. Thin gashes and punctures littered the left side of his face, courtesy of a thorny patch of underbrush that he’d been all but thrown into by the force of the stormwinds, runnels of rain diluting the pinpricks of blood and dyeing his left cheek a watery pink. He looked bedraggled and slightly worse for wear when he finally made his way to Ephraim, nearly bumping into the silvern female he did not know. Bourbon brown eyes sharpened with visceral defensiveness before recognition dawned within them — Aure’s scent was familiar, if only because she hung out with his brother from time to time. A gruff nod served as his greeting and a polite, “Excuse me,” as he paused, allowing her to lead the way to Ephraim.

“Hei,” he offered, voice pitched low in an attempt to sneak under the screaming winds. Shouting over them was impossible for the young wolf. The aspiring hompleia followed the spry little coywolf’s line of sight toward the grotesque sight that lay before them — but the combined weight of the three wolves present wasn’t nearly enough to throw back against the storm’s unwieldy gift. Silkie was certain that the pack’s feisripa would know best what to do, but he doubted @Artaax would hear him through the storm. Maybe if they could at least prop the bodies up against something, they could keep them from sinking and contaminating the water. Wasting so much free food would be a true tragedy. “Let’s try to…ah, prop them up,” he suggested quietly in the common tongue, speaking between two hefty gusts of wind.

Silkie’s nose was clogged with the scent of his own blood, so much that he missed the telltale stench of wolverine as he threaded his way gingerly through the brush. It was only when he paused to free a likely looking tree branch that he realized the three of them had a distinctly unwelcome visitor. The bough in question was actually a juvenile tree that’d been ripped up by the roots and would do well to aid the burly hunter’s cause, but when he threw his weight against it, he was struck by a flicker of movement in the shadows. Two beady, dark eyes and a nasty looking mouthful of fangs were briefly illuminated by a shock of lightning, and without much thought, Silkie dropped the tree and lunged. More concerned now for his own survival than Ephraim’s colossal find, the aspiring hunter latched onto the wolverine’s scruff and held on for dear life, trying desperately to keep from being filleted.