Porcupine Ridge when you call to me asleep
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She swept into the ridge with the subtlety of a riptide, never there until it dragged you under. Her tongue curled out and wrapped over her nose, tugging at the fur there and the gnarled, old skin of a scar.

Lusine drew in a breath of cold mountain air, feeling the wind tear into her like a living thing tasting for the best parts of her liver. The fox stared over the ridge from her perch, in the middle of a precarious ledge. She moved a second later, leaping from it in a flurry of white. She landed with a soft thump, bounding forward a few steps from the momentum. She drew another breath.

One step closer to the bottom.