Silvertip Mountain peaceable

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As the last, heavy clouds rolled languidly to the West, leaving behind them a wet warmness unbecoming of the season. Aesop rose from his hiding place beneath the eaves of a fallen tree, wet and miserable. He shook his coat and shivered, the cold cutting. He counted his blessings that it was as warm as it was, and strode through the dripping landscape, the weather heavy on his mind.

Many times, now, he had passed under the shadow of the mountain. It was a constant in his life, a monolith bearing down on the horizon no matter where he went, as he had not traveled far enough to hide it. Many times he had passed beneath it, but never had he picked among the detritus that lay at the foot of the mountain, great rubble of fallen trees and stone. Often these areas were full of small prey that darted around the cracks and eaves in the rocks.

Rather than prey, though, he found a wolf of purest white, striking in the purity of her coat. Petite, lithe, she seemed a pale ghost in the monochrome of the land. Feeling friendly, he barked at the woman, hoping to catch her attention.