Silvertip Mountain breaker of trees

There was a yip! A cry that was not wolf. But when the creature did not immediately flee, he knew that it was not a prey animal either. Fjall came down gingerly from his perch.

Up close, the canid was awash with the colors of dust and stormclouds, and her belly was round with growing pups. He was mystified by her condition, even more so by her patterns of speech.

He nodded when she asked if he was nice. I, I think so. He had never been called otherwise, anyway. My name is Fjall. He dared not come any closer to scent her; she seemed terribly afraid already, though brave enough to confront him. Do... do you have a name?