Silvertip Mountain Poslání

raedwulf climbs as he was made to. one paw after the other. the wind claws at his ears, stones shift beneath him, biting at his pads—but he moves without complaint.
and yet, what lifts his ears now is not the howl of wind, but the song that rises from behind him.
he glances back.
frenū climbs still. battered, small, but relentless. he bleeds effort with every step, but his spirit burns like a forge. the words are not known to raedwulf, but the meaning is clear.
he growls low—an answer. a sound of recognition. his paw thuds once against the stone in rhythm. then again. his voice joins, rough and foreign:
brōþor! stand fæst. wē climbaþ!