Redsand Canyon i can see your face in the parisian paintings

Anselm was still slightly on edge when a clatter sounded from above. He flinched, a ripple of guard hairs rising as he turned around to face the promontory. 

Where he would have assumed it a random event in his youthful naivety, Wylla knew better — she flung towards the source with teeth bared and tail high above her hips. 

Anselm followed suit, a stalking shadow as his mother took surged up the escarpment.