Porcupine Ridge the wind lays heavy

The great beast sat hunched on a rocky perch in an elevated position on the treacherous ridge. The wind brushed against his lengthy coat, coaxing the fur along his shoulders to stand in an even more erect position. Kierkegaard was more akin to a gargoyle, seemingly blending in with the dark charcoals and pale ashes of the background. The dangerous drops and ruggedly carved trails to higher positions had become something of a home to the ashen Sairensu wolf. He had spent enough time within the Teekon area that he knew a good majority of their lands. He had spent very little time near the packs, wanting to avoid them at any cost, but the free terrain had been thoroughly taken advantage of. In spite of the number of wolves in the surrounding territories, Kierkegaard had found himself growing attached to the differing landscapes that stretched from one end of the Teekon to the next. Lowering himself so that his gut was pressed against the stone beneath him, the large male stretched his legs out and peered curiously at the sights below. There were clouds billowing overhead – a threat of rain – but they appeared far enough in the distance that there was a good chance it would bypass the ridge altogether. The wound on his back leg was healing up, although, on occasion, it would twinge with a sharp pain and he would be forced to cease his endless wandering. It had made hunting difficult, but with Moz, he was able to sustain himself. Staying alive was all that mattered. Everything else was background noise.