Razorback Ridge you carry the heavens in your eyes

Melkor must've come from a more fortunate place than Wylla, then. Diaspora was getting by alright, but the wolves were more than a little hungry most days and wasting energy going after the few large prey animals that still existed in the mountains wasn't often worth the exertion. Beyond the mountains, things had been even worse. She'd be surprised if a handful of lone wolves hadn't died already. They simply couldn't subsist for so long on a diet of small prey only, not in winter when so much of it was hiding away.

You've been fortunate then, Wylla noted, not without a dash of suspicion for how that was possible. The herds were returning now, so maybe Melkor's pack simply had enough wolves that they'd secured a kill recently and had a lot more energy. Diaspora was small, their efforts more easily hampered by chance, bad weather, and hale prey. As for his observation that there would be more prey for them, Wylla responded only with a smirk. She, too, believed in survival of the fittest.

What world do you come from where mountain goats aren't considered big? Wylla scoffed. Was this guy for real? Granted, he was a pretty big wolf, so maybe to him the goats were small. In Wylla's experience they were as large as any deer, if not larger, and twice as dangerous. Deceitfully surefooted and equipped with sharp horns regardless of sex, they were risky prey to go after.