Whitefish River samakat bayda'

wolf-scent was everywhere. young, old, even new—leading northward to the plateau.
jawahir would not get so close as to invite their wrath.
the river suited them; they skirted the tree line where the soil dropped away, seeking shallows to cross, and then sought the moss-slick stones.
tail aloft for balance sake, it was not enough to avoid at least one slip. thankfully the jewel did not become trapped in the middle, though when they arrived on the eastern edge the rufous ginger of their limbs presented darkly wetted.
no matter.
they could lounge in the sun a while, then be on their way.