Heron Lake Plateau Here I Go Again

Moving north through the forest seemed like a good idea, not that the dog knew where she was really heading. She now had a vague idea of what wolf-scent was, and over the course of a few hours she trailed after one scent or another, deeply curious of these not-quite-dogs. It was a foolish venture but she was lonely, plus she had such a limited pool of reference for these creatures, so Blackheart did not know to be wary of them.

Her first instinct when she came across a strikingly fresh scent trail was to raise her tail, pausing with a paw raised, like a pointer hound. As she continued on, her strides lengthened in opposition to her dwindling patience, and soon the scent was accompanied by the sharp quality of fresh water. It was a lot like the creek — but that wasn't important. She wasn't thirsty for water, but for knowledge.

As she came prowling from the underbrush to the edge of a plateau, Blackheart hoisted herself over some rotten logs that criss-crossed her path and then onward, to where the plateau opened up to exposed stonework. Her claws tapped at the hard surface as she scrambled to keep from losing her balance, and then she pirouetted on the spot, investigating the scents lining the basalt.

She almost did not see the wolf; it was so immense that she dismissed it as a boulder, but it moved, its head lowering towards the water. When that subtle motion caught in her eyes Blackheart froze. She didn't know if she should approach (though her quivering hindquarters belied her vested interest in such an event) so she held herself as firmly as she could in one place, watching, waiting - ready to spring away if her presence was not welcome.