Lone Star Mountain fitbit charger

The black wolf was bitter. He was a benign soul, capable of great compassion and tolerance, and of immense patience. He felt he had been generous and kind, that he had lived and let lived; but the contest at his borders, the disregard he was showed and the mockery of the fair request made, was to him a spit in the face. He and his wolves had suffered in proving their point and securing their home, and he was now wholly intolerant to any more who thought they might reside near to him. His dominant nature had intensified, and with it came more readiness to be aggressive. This all lead his paws across his borders.

He passed through formerly claimed lands, confirming for himself they were still gone. Their tracks were no longer crisp in the snow, their marks stale and fading. He could not help but snort at his former neighbors; but then what did he expect of a yearling alpha and those foolish enough to follow one. It caused him to question his own hierarchy, and the way he allowed it to be built. Of course, these days, the black wolf questioned much about his previous logic and manner of approaching things. Perhaps it had belonged where he had been born; and perhaps it did not belong where he was now.

Determined to ensure no other would even think of settling nearby, he moved past the stormy mount to another one equally as barren and uninviting except to the sheep that roamed there.

Mason was not what he had set out to be; he was chatty and friendly, but he found that fits of sulkiness threaded through his body without warning. Sometimes he found himself wanting to smash people in the face with his paw when they didn't do what he wanted. He had no real way of knowing this was normal teenage behaviour, because he only had three wolves to look up to: FitzDutiful, Steady and June. None of them made any mention of ever having thought this way. June was his littermate but she tended to be off with the daisies most of the time, so perhaps she just didn't have the mental capacity to feel so frustrated.
 
With his new title of Beta, the awkwardly-shaped young wolf had set off on a jaunt to progress his Scout trade. He wanted lots of experience to show his Dad. A pale, brown-dappled grey body cut through the wilds and carefully skirted territories that were obviously claimed. Mason spotted no one on his way, not even from a long distance. He relished the solitude for a while, but soon he longed for another being to speak with. His grand thoughts of being an introvert were wildly inaccurate. Mason huffed a sigh and trekked diagonally across a mountain he hadn't visited before. Sheep grazed in the far distance, not worried about a lone wolf unless he had angled towards them. He didn't bother; sheep-rustling was not going to be any fun on his own.
 
The young beta scented a wolf he didn't know some minutes later. A black nose reached down to the earth to drink in the scent. Ears pricked in the direction of the stranger and Mason set off. He pressed on in a lope, eager to find someone in this barren lonely landscape. It didn't take him long to spot a lone, dark wolf whose fur twinkled as darkly as a starless night. Mason headed straight for him, anticipation lending his unconventional face a certain quality. "Hullo?!" He called loudly and with gusto as he ran towards the stranger, tongue lolling to one side, hoping that the man would turn and greet him.

He paused to sniff near a boulder; there were wolf scents here and there on this landscape, but none indicated more to him than a passing presence. The sound of a another wolf running toward him, however, immediately caused him to bristle and he spun, lips lifted over his fangs and tail arched, to see a young white male quickly advancing. But the boy's posture, lolling tongue and enthusiastic greeting eased him at once and he relaxed. Inwardly, he chided himself for being so tense, for suspecting that an ambush from the band of children was possible.

"Hello," he said in return. His tail hung idle, offering little more than a gentle twitch to show that he was approachable. His muzzle reached forward slightly as he made a bid to catch the other's scent, curious to find he smelled of a pack. He was quick to ask, "where do you come from?"

Surprised at his voice perhaps, Mason spotted the wolf turn tensely. Before the boy had a chance to backpedal in fear, the large black man relaxed, and Mason felt his thrumming heart gentle itself before it had truly begun to beat faster. Mason returned the gesture of scent-taking, catching a strong whiff of a pack he didn’t know. The way Taggarik’s tail had raised like a flag on a mast before relaxing spoke of a born leader – although not necessarily one in his current situation. Mason kept his posture safe and low.
 
“I’m from Silvertip Mountain! I’m called Mason.” Mason exclaimed, his tail waving around behind his buttocks like a tarpaulin in a strong wind. Mason looked about nosily, but he knew there was no scent of the man here besides the trail he had just left. “Where is your pack? Did you come to hunt a sheep?” Mason knew something of taking down mountain creatures, although he wasn’t sure even a rangy masculine guy like this could take one down alone, unless it was a youth.

Silvertip Mountain. The black wolf did not know this name, but though he had scouted the area quite a bit, with so many peaks around them on this great range, he was not comforted to hear it. It was too easy for him to assume that this pack was near, and that he had missed it during his scouting. He felt his unease in his paws, so much so that he disregarded the question asked of him and the introduction — something he was not typically inclined to do — just so that he could ask a follow up one.

"Sorry, I don't know this mountain — where is it?" Despite the tension in his muscles, his tone was not harsh. He did not demand an answer, and was respectful in how he asked.

Mason wondered whether he had missed a beat, because there was no provision of friendly information – only another question. “It’s okay!” he responded to the rhetorical ‘sorry’. Mason then swung his head over his shoulder to stare back in the direction he had come. Fog lingered over the faint peak. “It’s way over there, one of those high in the sky. I’m not sure which…” Mason trailed off, wondering about that. Perhaps he should start trekking distances from the mountain whilst keeping it in sight to make sure he could always know which one it was.
 
Mason turned around to grin at Taggarik. “But yeah, if you ever wanna visit just give me a howl. Mason.” He supplied, not quite remembering if he’d already given his name, but hoping it would prompt the other.

His gray eyes followed the line of the other's snout as it gestured toward another peak, across the way from the ones that made up this range. The black wolf bobbed his head, feeling the tension in his muscles dissipate. He had nothing to worry about from a pack so far from his own.

The other wolf offered his name again, and this time, Taggarik reciprocated the introduction. "I'm Tagg," he said. "I claim the ridge west of here — Porcupine Ridge. I had trouble with some neighbors recently, so you'll have to excuse me for being a bit on edge about other packs being nearby."

He appreciated the offer that he could visit this Silvertip Mountain, but it was extremely unlikely it was offer he would act on. He had no inclination to stray far from his home, which provided all he needed.