Porcupine Ridge The crownless again shall be king

It was easy to take the treacherous ridge for granted when it took little more effort to reach it than any other elevated place in the park, at least for a creature gifted with flight. As he soared higher on the warm push of a midday thermal, the crags and crevasses smoothed out to a rocky plateau, made to appear decades worn by the illusion of distance. It was a sight to be awed by, but Narsil's sharp eyes wandered elsewhere, almost bored by the uniform ripples of rock and sparse, treeless expanse that left little to the imagination. He wasn't particularly hungry, but there was little even to be bothered with in terms of game.

Narsil banked out of his warm column of air and began an easy descent, scanning for wolves as the ridge loomed closer. It was a long shot, but the eagle's search had no real deadline, and he would simply continue on with his life and keep an eye out as he went. His parents had said the strange wolf had gone in this direction, but that had been months ago, and Narsil was far from optimistic. He gave an indifferent whistle and clipped in his wings, picking up speed and stalling at the last moment to alight on a gnarled, windswept tree that was clinging to the ridge by its last vestiges of roots.