The Sunspire the gilded age has long been done

Set off from the borders a bit, but he's distinctly trying to pay a visit. Open for anyone!

Though the snow was still quickly fading away in places, the snowcapped mountains on the other side of the plateau still boasted what winter had brought them. Mordecai found himself lingering through the vale once more, though this time he had not encountered Falwasi there again. For the most part, he had been left unattended and unaccompanied through the majority of the vale's span, and now had come to rest beneath the towering gaze of the Spire's peak. It was tall, perhaps if not almost taller than he recalled Silvertip. But the terrain uphill looked like an easier fare, yet he felt beneath that inviting look lied unseen dangers. Chief among them, if not for his sense of smell that kept him at bay, would have been the wolves living there.

It was this loosely spoken about agreement between the Sunspire and the Creek that had drawn him there, though he had not come to ask about it. No, Mordecai's interests lied on the creatures that lived there. As the leader of the Spine in a much different season, the wolves of the Spire had boasted scouts that had come knocking at his proverbial front door a time or two. He had thought them decent and still did. But whether or not they lived there now, he couldn't have said. There was nothing overly familiar about the scents he found carrying on the crisp wind, and from the cover of the bare forestry to his back, he had yet to see the scouts he expected.

And so, the ruddy Ostrega pressed on, trailing out from their sweeping border and through what he presumed were their hunting grounds. He walked no particular path but instead forged his own across the brittle decay of grass, sweeping his feet through any tufts of snow still lingering. Someone would spy him out here and undoubtedly intercept him.

william elliott whitmore — field song