Redsand Canyon i can see your face in the parisian paintings

Anselm cowed under the bristled fur and show of fangs: his ears folded back and he withdrew, tail flinging under his belly until Wylla’s posture softened. 

He’d taken her by surprise — Anselm recovered quickly enough, coming just to Wylla’s flank with a brush of his nose in affection while she explained her reason for visiting the stale borders. 

The prospect of rifling through their caches piqued his interest. Taking deep draughts of the air, Anselm parsed from the various scent molecules the faintest odor of rot. Maybe something down there. He pointed towards a dip in the lowlands, keeping an eye about them in case Tikal made a grand reappearance.