Porcupine Ridge sweet nothings,

The winter wind swept by—he could still feel the remnants of Muskrat’s teeth from his body when she had carried him to this spiralling highland—though his fur already thickened, and the grip of fang had already begun to thoroughly heal.

As this dark wolf prowled closer, a drawl in his words, Alasdair wondered if he too would mark him as the Ridge’s—particularly in his petulance and disinterest in speaking in return.

His own glittering eyes studied the man who certainly spoke a great deal more than the other adults here thus far—his gaze narrowing before casually looking back at his tail. It didn't seem twisted, did it? No matter. He turned back to scour the lands below them—watchful.

Waiting.

“Why?” His own tone mirrored the smoothness of the other—one word offered only, and yet the beginnings of a shadow learning his own footing within the world he had been thrust into.