Porcupine Ridge a magical people

It is easy enough to cut through the woods. The terrain becomes steep, and what starts as an overgrowth of ferns peters out to bare, red earth as well as patches of dry mud—the kind which has clear patterning throughout it, and a pass overtop with a few deep breaths helps Scintilla determine why. It is a wallow; a group of pigs had, at some point during the previous rainfall, transformed this pathway in to their own space. They are not here now, but their tracks patchwork the earth in a haphazard, obvious way.

He considers these marks a moment, breathes deeply of the rich earth-scent that has become a rubbery sort of dry mud expanse, and then marches on, and up. From the greenery that remains, along the curvature of a ridge, until he cannot go any further without somehow sprouting hooves. Scintilla coughs softly and shakes his head to clear his senses, licking his lips—and tasting the air—as a breeze blusters through the fur of his cheeks.

Where to next?