Spotted Eagle Mountain Sad nights linger through the blackness of a hound.

The sound of gliding steps through the grass would have alerted anyone of her approach, but all that thrived here were tired trees clinging to life. Their trunks were narrow, black, and twisted. The uneven ground was not welcoming to her presence, and the longer she lingered in the foothills the less inclined she was to climb across the mountain proper.

The tickle of hanging moss across her hackles roused a sour look to her face—and as Stryx looked drearily over one shoulder, she thought she saw something white-capped in the trees. No doubt one of the birds that made this place its home. She ducked and prowled among the trees thereafter, letting loose a huff of disdain as she investigated the soil. It was as if something had scorched and salted the earth. Many places were blackened, although moss clung to many surfaces and there were tiny shoots struggling to thrive.

Around the corner was an exposed granite deposit; Stryx paused here, noticing a cluster of vibrant purple buds crowding against green shoots. The plant did not look like much. It wasn't fully grown yet, the buds having not yet flowered, but that did not stop her from sweeping to where the weeds grew. She began to pluck them free with her teeth, chewing at the stalks with her molars, enjoying the burst of pollen as each bud was popped between her teeth—less so the strong, almost clinical, peppermint smell of the penroyal that hung around afterwards.