The Tangle Hands to your hymnals, hell's at the door

His question was met with a surly rejoinder that Kigipigak took as humor, relating it to how some elders of his home tribe could appear unhappy or grim but truthfully be the opposite. Rosalyn was one of the oldest wolves he'd ever met. It was easy to place her in the elder category and treat her as a wizened travel companion.

The tangle faded away around them; as they stepped out of the shadows and halted, Kigipigak looked around. He could see the crown of cliffs on the horizon—and Rosalyn confirmed that they were a chain of mountains. Perhaps not his particular haunt, but close enough. He was glad to be free of the woods.

I can find my way from here. Thank you Aumarak! He grinned, tail swaying. As he made to depart Kigipigak stopped mid-stride and murmured, It is the name for things that have burned. Some places flourish after the burning. A reference to her old scars. I hope you return safely home. A dip of the head—and he is away, striding pleasantly across the rolling hillside.