Sleeping Dragon we always tear our Gods to bits and eat the bits we like

Sleeping Dragon. It wasn't hard to imagine how the desolate mountain got its name. Try as he might, Ephraim couldn't conjure an image in his mind of what it might have looked like before. Surely it was wild and beautiful in the same way the rest of the taiga was at one time, but now it was little more than an ashen wasteland. Even the trees that Heda led them to were a phantom of what was. His eyes lingered on the charred roots of the one trapped in an upheaval of earth as the commander spoke.

Ephraim stilled his tongue from asking the most obvious of questions—why did you leave—and instead he turned a curious look upon his other companions. Had Vercingetorix known this place when Drageda lived here? Had Bobby? Were the wolves the same here as they were on the cliffs, or different entirely?

His attention snapped back to Thuringwethil when she howled, a low and sonorous noise he could never hope to emulate. He couldn't relate to the emotion conveyed in her tone, having never had a place to permanently say farewell to. His memory of his birthplace was hazy at best, if not completely faded. Nevertheless the boy tilted back his head and loosed his own high-pitched cry to match.