He leaves the dwellers to the west, forging east. Nothing roots him in place so it is best to move on, cutting through large swathes of land in order to grace the shards of Sawtooth Spire. As soon as he set his sights upon this place, he knew the history here. Not all of it, but some. That by itself is enough to make him linger and explore.
Traversing through the stone javelins at the foot of this grand ridge, Natjuk marvels at the savage formation. He notes the limestone paths and the tarns located south. He scrutinizes a forest of seemingly petrified trees, the hot springs, the sun shelf. There is much here, teeming with diverse morphology to keep one engaged. Much happened here. This is where his ânak gave birth to her first brood, where coyotes threatened the lives of that same brood, where his atâtsiak had yet to court his grandmother...
There is that emotion again, welling like blood to a fresh wound. Natjuk does not know what it is and likely never will, currently perplexed by it. Having spent plenty of hours exploring, he decides it's best to move on from here. No one is shacking up here. Selfishly, he hopes no one ever will.
He howls a prolonged, mournful song. It overwhelms lesser sound. Birds, gale, water - all swallowed by his echo. The din may sound like nonsense to others but to the crooner, it is a testament. A testament to his predecessors and how this mountain might never know the tread of his blood, the pace of his lineage.
Natjuk's tune ends on a clipped key. Tiredly, he leaves the mountain, heading for the weald snuggled in one of its ravines.
Traversing through the stone javelins at the foot of this grand ridge, Natjuk marvels at the savage formation. He notes the limestone paths and the tarns located south. He scrutinizes a forest of seemingly petrified trees, the hot springs, the sun shelf. There is much here, teeming with diverse morphology to keep one engaged. Much happened here. This is where his ânak gave birth to her first brood, where coyotes threatened the lives of that same brood, where his atâtsiak had yet to court his grandmother...
There is that emotion again, welling like blood to a fresh wound. Natjuk does not know what it is and likely never will, currently perplexed by it. Having spent plenty of hours exploring, he decides it's best to move on from here. No one is shacking up here. Selfishly, he hopes no one ever will.
He howls a prolonged, mournful song. It overwhelms lesser sound. Birds, gale, water - all swallowed by his echo. The din may sound like nonsense to others but to the crooner, it is a testament. A testament to his predecessors and how this mountain might never know the tread of his blood, the pace of his lineage.
Natjuk's tune ends on a clipped key. Tiredly, he leaves the mountain, heading for the weald snuggled in one of its ravines.
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