Moonspear amidst the mists and coldest frosts

Hydra awaited not too far from where they presently lingered. She had seen their approach, though they had not seen her from where she stood, and retreated back to the shadows. The mother had taken care to not make things too difficult for her sons; this was but their first lesson in which she had forced them to trail her, after all, and she knew she ought to start at square one as much for her learning as for theirs. What could they do, now? What could they not? This was but a baseline for her children to know, and an important insofar as at the very least one of these things would be able to be seen when hunting for prey. 

There was more than that, too—which she would, of course, teach them. 

She had ensured to give them some challenge in their search through the path in which she herself had selected. It was not necessarily easy, though neither would it be impossible for them to navigate. The lesson was twofold; for strength-building, and skill-honing. Just as she had been, her children were born of the mountain; they would someday be able to navigate it as easily as she, and the rest of their elders born to this place, could. Hydra, every day, saw to that. 

She waited for her children, their success imminent but their lesson not yet over in its entirety. Hydra was still, silent; they would not find her with their ears, or even their eyes, but their nose.