Porcupine Ridge threshold

Set September 30th.

Thunder rolled overhead, graceless and threatening. The ashen male prowled towards the jutting ridge, his gaze trailing over the thick clouds that had gathered skyward. There was shelter there, on the ridge; he had scaled high enough to scope out potential den sites. He had visited the rocky outcropping once before, and found that the seclusion of the area was welcoming enough. The higher he climbed, the better his chances were of escaping the constant thrum of wandering wolves. Within the first three days of arriving in the Teekon, Kierkegaard could feel his head spinning. He was well aware that his likelihood for survival was much slimmer with the coming winter months. Sooner or later it would come down to having to join a pack. That was something he would discuss with Moz, whenever he found his swarthy sister again. Droplets of rain began to fall from the darkening sky. Evening was rolling in and it looked as though it was going to be a turbulent one. Leaping onto a flat surface, Kierke paused with his head low to the earth, the fur rising along his neck and spine. There was a brilliant flash of lightning that illuminated the skyline followed immediately by a roar of thunder so wicked that the ashen male felt his chest hum in response to it. Wondering where his sister was, he hoped that she was well-off enough to find shelter before nightfall. Taking a few quick leaps, Kierkegaard began his trek up the side of the ridge in search of a cave that might house him through the savage weather.