Ghost Lion Crag If you face the fear that keeps you frozen

He wasn't dead yet. It seemed impossible that he wouldn't be dead yet, but there you have it. Artaax was a disheveled rake of a wolf - a ghost, but for the fact that he was still, somehow, alive. He didn't act like it, of course. He didn't feel like either. But, here he was - breathing, heart beating, living, by some definition of the term.

Artaax knew when someone entered his lonely crag. He always knew. The area was not large enough that he couldn't monitor every inch of it on his own, which he did obsessively in order to prevent his mind from going where he did not want it to go. He spotted her below while he prowled across an upper cliff. She was wandering through his domain in an almost aimless manner. His lips peeled back in a silent snarl at the trespass and he crept along to follow her.

Having grown up on the Cliffs, Artaax had quickly become quite adept at moving along the ones that lined the the crag on either side. So, he quickly was able to get ahead of her and dart down to her level. When he stepped out to intercept her, there was a few yards of distance between them. His hackles were raised and ears slicked back in an aggressive, warning stance. His posture, however, was not that of a proud, dominant wolf, but crouched and puffed up like an angry cat as he prepared to drive her away so he could go on living-or-something-like-it in peace-or-something-like-it.