Firefly Glen I've heard since I was younger that oil and water don't mix

@Osiris (or anyone else from Firefly Glen!)

There it was, broken up in the morning fog: Moonspear.

Or, so she hoped. Dhalia tipped her charcoaled head and squinted against the sharp grey light of the overcast sky. Literally every mountain fit the description Jasper had given her, and even though she'd been here once before, the landscape looked a lot different in the golden hues of autumn, rather than in the patchy white of the winter they'd travelled here together. And last time, anyway, Jasper had only pointed the mountain out, hardly thought to take her to it, even as he rattled on about relatives and Ostregas and wolves who had known their parents. He'd been too driven to find the Caldera than to linger here a while, which in the end came up emptier than most of the mole holes she'd poked and prodded in the prairies that now lay some miles behind her.

Oh well. She was here now, and anyway, regardless of whether this mountain was Moonspear or not, she found her journey disrupted by the soft, yet certain marks, of some other claim. Pretty weak still around the outer ranges, nowhere near as formidable as some of the packs she'd drifted across. An establishing band of loners, perhaps? In any case, someone took up residence in these foothills between the prairies and the mount.

"Hello?" she called out, a half-howl straight into the heart of the land. "Anyone here?" Curiosity drove her to linger on the edge of the Glen, ears tall and cupped for an answer, head raised and sharp eyes aglint with bright awareness. Moonspear, Moonspear, Moonspear could wait a little while longer, as it had done for what, almost a year now? An eensy-weensy detour never hurt anyone.