Broken Boulder from rags to recovery

mahler had been surveying the easternmost border of the small territory. satisfied by the absence of wolves that were not his own, he stropped bark from tree-trunks and rubbed his shoulders high along the boles until tufts of his dark fur were caught and left behind, signalling to any trespassers the dire choice they would make by forging over the boundary lines.
sequoia's angered voice ripped through the taiga weald. a flick of one aud and then he was off, wolf-trot carrying him to where she summoned. 
"i see you have met vone another," the gargoyle observed dryly. the hot scent of arcas hung in the air. he must be quite close, and mahler looked at sequoia, wondering why he had been called for what seemed routine marking.