Bitterroot Valley and in her song all magic flows

As luck would have it - for Miska, perhaps not Elowyn - she had chosen to wander the same stretch of river as the most crass and unrefined of her packmates.

The black wolf had been gnawing on femur when the music reached him. A large boulder hid him from view, and though he would have liked nothing more than to scare the shit out of the singer, Miska tempered his inner gremlin. It was important to be liked. Tolerated, at least for the winter.

He stayed where he was, listened with closed eyes, and eventually added a  second, deeper voice to hers - no words, only melody.