Redsand Canyon i can see your face in the parisian paintings

She proceeded at a slow and cautious tread, keenly aware of what Tikal's guards might do to her if they jumped to hasty conclusions. While she kept her eyes trained on the terrain ahead, her tall ears swivelled like satellites, sweeping her surroundings for the quietest click of nails on stone or the whisk of paws over sand.

A sound from behind made her turn. Whoever it belonged to was making no effort to hide themselves. Wylla let her short coat bristle out and bared her teeth, prepared to meet whoever was stalking her head-on, for it could be no other than a Tikal wolf to approach her so loudly in their territory.

She visibly deflated the minute she saw the warm grey fur and darker features.

Och, she made an irate sound in her throat. You scared me half to death, Ants. Come, come, quietly now. She lifted her head up to peer at an upcoming bend in the canyon wall. We had neighbours here. Mereo once, and then Tikal. Your father made an arrangement of some kind with them. I came to check in, but found their scents were stale. They might have moved further in or they might be gone.

And if they were gone altogether, then what harm was a little rifling through their former stores to see what could be reclaimed for Paleo? She pinned her son with an inquisitive look. Do you smell anything fresh?