Silver Moraine Wearing a Warning Sign

It was almost as though Renard had never left the North.
 
Renard had always been well-acquainted with the kind of land ice left behind. If it wasn't still slick with snow it was cold and rocky, dotted with narrow outcrops of evergreen. Walk far enough and there would be valleys of spruce and conifer in between the spires of rock, rivers clear as crystal that carved canyons into stone. This place was half familiar. It felt good to stand on the crumbling soil and rock, heat bleeding out of the darkening sky around them, to look around and see the trees on either side.
 
Ugh. Maybe they were homesick after all. All they needed now was --
 
No. There were no worries about that. It would be a struggle for anything to hide here, amidst so much rubble; the wolfdog didn't bother to keep themselves low to the ground. Renard drank in a lungful of cool evening air, ears angling forward to the crunch of loose pebbles under their pads, and kept walking. The trail wound on, unchanging, but for a single figure up in the distance, and they drew slowly closer without announcing their presence. The sound of rattling gravel would surely give them away.