Porcupine Ridge saturday night kind of pink

the rock is hostile as it rises ever higher, and yet, something draws the wolf onward. the path she cuts through the rock is by no means efficient; each step is made with careful deliberation, unwilling (but entirely unable to) allow her soft paw pads to fall prey to the cutting rock. much of the day had been spent here, seeking that connection, that curious draw toward a place that meant it would serve as her home. but despite the little glens and valleys, juxtaposed here against the harshness, she knows that she will end up moving on. 

she has been a wanderer so long she wonders if she has become disillusioned; she has seen great mountains and wetlands filled with life, windswept moors and verdant woods, and yet none compare with her once-weald. 

the scent of blood, faint yet heady in the evening air. auds swept to alertness atop her head, and carefully did the Rabe make her way toward the source. pawprints, then, pressed only recently against the rock, intermingled with the scent of wolf. no meal would come of this, then, but after a moment the woman elects to follow after the prints. 

she is a fair distance away, and had the wayward soul not paused for rest, she doubts she would have found her so swiftly. but movement beneath the shadow of boulder brings her to rest, still some distance away. tail sways, head lowering as chin points in the direction of the girl, dark eyes seeking to pick out her figure from the shadow.