Sawtooth Spire for the debt i owe, gotta sell my soul

Thorn’s song came from the heavens as if a prayer and angel had been bestowed upon her—faith was obsolete to the slender woman, but even in that moment, she could rely heavily on fate, and the fading options of her predicament. Chances were running out, and revived to a wakefulness by her pack mates impressive tones, a whimper escaped the pale dove, the scrabble to find purchase upon stone and ledge to push her further up becoming frantic, and not particularly well thought out.

The stones flung lower, bouncing away from the steep edge she stood upon, and quieting for only a second as one limb slipped, threatening to pull her further from her goal, the she-wolf berated herself, forehead pressed to the stone as she attempted to take a steadying moment, ignoring the pain that erupted from her sides and her injured hip. “Just breathe,” she whispered to herself, allowing a moment to collect herself.

Her green eyes traced upward, blinking against the light that did filter toward her. Her own muzzle tilted, a hacking attempt to howl for her comrade failing with a rasp as she wheezed, her lungs allowing none of it. “Thorn,” she croaked—the wisp of her sultry voice gone and replaced with the blood and debris within her throat. “Thorn….” Her voice came a whisper, and without waiting to see if he could hear her muted attempts to call upon a hero, she staggered, and leapt upward, two paws clutching to an edge as she tried to scrabble at the jagged rocks for hold.