Whitewater Gorge Like a cry at the final breath that is drawn

He moved north and cut across the rolling hills with their excessive greenery until a forest stood out upon the flatlands; but upon approaching it he sensed danger, noticing the disquiet of the woods and a few trails which looked to be wolf-sized. He went close enough to inspect a few of the tree trunks and found fresh scat, and further along a more pungent urine stain which had killed some otherwise vibrant new grass — and Yellowbelly knew he couldn't cross through the forest. So he avoided the cover of the trees and roamed.

Gradually the plateau he had been crossing became sloped, descending further and further - at times too steep for his burly body, other times dropping off like a sheer cliff; he back-tracked a few times and eventually came to a great chasm. If he peered over the edge he couldn't see the bottom of the gorge, although the way the light played off the rocks was intriguing. He couldn't recall ever seeing anything like this before — but alas, that meant very little. If he wanted to keep going he'd have to find a crossing point - thus, Yellowbelly began his exhaustive search.