Sawtooth Spire It's only been about a couple of days

Wylla's first impression of Mahler's new chosen territory was that it was absolute trash.

The base of the tall spire was littered with spiked stone and pitfalls, making navigating treacherous. How the hell were they supposed to hunt game in the foothills when the foothills were like toothsome jaws waiting to maim them? Just getting to the upper reaches of the mountain was a pain in the ass, leaving the gravid she-wolf in a foul mood. She was no mountaineer and even though her figure remained svelte in pregnancy, climbing the tall Sawtooth took a real toll on her.

To make matters worse, the paths were sometimes broken by sudden outcroppings of rock, forcing her to change direction and take a longer route more often than she cared for. Somewhere far up there was supposedly a wonderful valley, easily defensible, but Wylla was really starting to think that Mahler was insane. The hollow was a much more hospitable territory than this.

Grumbling with frustration and scowling to herself, Wylla stopped to take a leak at the side of the game trail, which doubled as a scent marking given the strong quality of her urine lately.