It would be unwise to wander too close or linger too long. Not all wolves were fond of her kind.
It was a risk even to turn her sights upon the depths of the wild, temperate jungle — the likes of which had never graced her gaze of lilac sunrise. The scents of many clung to the thick roots that wound through the soft loam, a damp black mulch that squeezed between the pinkpads of her paws with every step. Comings and goings. Of strangers like herself. Of a group, whom she presumed lived nearby.
But the sky was darkening as the sun fell towards the horizons. She had walked far that day and her jaws ached where they had remained parted and locked around the otter skin carried there.
Imi had lost the crash of the waves, for much of the seaside in these lands was out of reach — down below the sheer cliffs that occasionally broke to allow access to the water. The she-dog had been forced to turn south and skirt around the bluffs. She could hear the sea somewhere close by, though the thick press of the trees blocked it from view, and smell the salt on the wind.
It would not do to go searching at nightfall, break her neck tumbling over an unseen cliff or dip in the forest floor. Perhaps in the morn. She might even be lucky enough to wrangle a fish to break her fast.
For now, the Samoyed curled herself in the roots of one of the massive trees — selfish giants who let no other grow in their shade save for the moss and peat that crawled over their trunks. It was a relief to settle the skin between her forelegs, but even better was the treasures inside: dried strips of caribou and traveling herbs for her aching pawpads.
It was a risk even to turn her sights upon the depths of the wild, temperate jungle — the likes of which had never graced her gaze of lilac sunrise. The scents of many clung to the thick roots that wound through the soft loam, a damp black mulch that squeezed between the pinkpads of her paws with every step. Comings and goings. Of strangers like herself. Of a group, whom she presumed lived nearby.
But the sky was darkening as the sun fell towards the horizons. She had walked far that day and her jaws ached where they had remained parted and locked around the otter skin carried there.
Imi had lost the crash of the waves, for much of the seaside in these lands was out of reach — down below the sheer cliffs that occasionally broke to allow access to the water. The she-dog had been forced to turn south and skirt around the bluffs. She could hear the sea somewhere close by, though the thick press of the trees blocked it from view, and smell the salt on the wind.
It would not do to go searching at nightfall, break her neck tumbling over an unseen cliff or dip in the forest floor. Perhaps in the morn. She might even be lucky enough to wrangle a fish to break her fast.
For now, the Samoyed curled herself in the roots of one of the massive trees — selfish giants who let no other grow in their shade save for the moss and peat that crawled over their trunks. It was a relief to settle the skin between her forelegs, but even better was the treasures inside: dried strips of caribou and traveling herbs for her aching pawpads.
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