Silvertip Mountain the serpent's words i remember well

The stonework of the mountain was impressive, if one were really keen on taking study of it. A monolithic structure every bit as tall as it was stout, it had long tempted him to visit for more than his stay in the weald. Dirge had avoided it at length for a time, often too reminded of how much the span of forest and foothills resembled his birthplace. And for the longest time recently, he had thought another seeking to cordon off the peak from others—it had a prime location after all, views that rivaled the stony tachycardic span to its south and east—but he found on that day that the scents there were stale. A claim perhaps null, a beneficial point to the weak claim he made of the weald in the west.

He lingered along the low rises, skirting gently over weathered paths either left by his ilk or others of similar design, his snout low to the ground. He wondered what became of those that had tucked away here but tried not to think of it; perhaps there were greater dangers here than let on, and rightly so would stay to terrain he could manage without the pitfalls of going rear end off a sheer drop. He was no stranger to higher destinations but even a fool could tell the steepness of the climb and decide to stay with reach of timberline. It went without saying that perhaps there were also no guarantees that he paced the earth alone, as it felt just as foolish to think the whole peak abandoned for what it was worth.

He paused, drawing up on the remains of some hapless creature that met a grisly fate with faint interest. A meal left behind and picked clean by carrion; any trace of what it had been was left in bone and stubborn tufts of fur. He snatched a length of bone that seemed suitable and lightly gnawed, turning to make a hasty retreat the way he had come. A prize however meager, but something he thought he could antagonize his sibling with later. Even better if it had been in the possession of another.