Silvertip Mountain rock

The growl from the pale throat faded to silence in anticipation of the shadow's response, yet its giver was met with naught but silence. The trees, those black watchmen, shifted and stirred seemingly with nervous excitement in the breeze, wagering amongst one another in hushed whispers and sighs whom they thought might emerge from this standoff victorious. A gauzy cloud slid away from the luminous moon, and subtle rays of light beamed down through breaks in the canopy and poured over the forest floor in broken, languid pools of silver. One such moonbeam fell upon what was unmistakably a bristled mane, pouring liquidly into the emptiness between those sinister black quills and tipping them in luminescent quicksilver. Sigrún's eyes followed the razor line of hackles to the flat of a moonlit head, upon which there were two stark ears turned sharply toward her. From there, her gaze fell upon two bottomless black pits that could only be the shadow's eyes, and if moonbeams could catch fire and burn with the heat of a thousand suns, such was the gleam Sigrún saw in those dark eyes.

"Lost?" came a word from the wolf's mouth, as brittle and frigid as arctic wind over black ice, puncturing the silence like a hammer-blow. Sigrún, as brilliant and radiant in the moonlight as this creature was dark and shrouded, kept her chilly eyes locked on those of the shadow and said, with a barbed edge to her voice, "Nope." And then silence fell again, punctuated only by the soft susurration of the ancient pines around them.