Sawtooth Spire illumination

dust is stirred by wolfshelm’s hooves. he breathes hard, ears trained on her silhouette—dark against the pale bark, still as death with a single, bloodied paw swinging.
taunting. it is met by a shrill, threatening nicker.
his body remains squared to the cat. the wind brushes past, lifting dust and mane alike, and for a moment all that moves is the slow rise and fall of his chest.
a statue carved from tension and threat. this is where he will remain, long as he must, to ensure the cat does not get her easy meal.
another strike of hoof.