Silvertip Mountain Are you covered in leaves and gently shaking in the gentle breeze?

A swathe of blood marked a path up the rocky side of the mountain, headed up by black Aventus, who marched upward with a hapless coyote carcass clutched in his jaws. He had all but flayed the hide from it in a dozen places so that the muscle shone slickly through in the dim sunlight. The bottom jaw was dislocated grotesquely. His first blow, that. The rest had come easy.

And he had not hesitated, not even for a second, although killing a coyote was not the same as killing a wolf. Nevertheless, he had the blood of these spindly beasts in him, too, so it wasn't that much different, either.

He dragged the thing up to the heights of Silvertip in the early afternoon, cutting through the forest and away from the crystal cavern to a collection of vast, towering spires. What had created these things? Aventus lacked the imagination to grant them a story, but they rose out of the earth like bear's claws, and that was sign enough for him. He sought one of the shortest spires and clambered up the side until he was able to reach the sharp peak of it.

There, he flung down the coyote carcass and shoved his weight into it, effectively impaling it and letting the remaining blood drain in glinting rivulets down the sides.