Porcupine Ridge precious and fragile things

He was going to stick out like a sore thumb if it didn't start snowing soon. His form was built for subzero conditions, where the landscape was one giant stretch of white and ice that burned the eye. But for now, in his new home, Dovev was confronted with the dull glow of autumn. But the skies had been hinting at snow- and now it came. Fuzzy white flakes upon the bridge of his brow, down his muzzle, across his pelt, and onto his flakes. The fluffy cohesions didn't melt on his plush ivory coat, as the hairs were insulated in such a way. The ground had yet to take on the same consistency. The earth was still a mix of yellow grass, dirt, and strewn branches that were shiny wet with melted snowflakes. The aroma produced was that of a wet animal.
Tracks of animals criss-crossed the earth, from four to two toed, toes and hooves that sunk into the muddy ground. Dovev's large step covered them as he sauntered along at a slow pace, the hairs around his visage blown back from the frequent gusts. The breeze grew colder and harder, and Dovev grew more comfortable with the weather. The trees had long since broke and the wolf was perambulating across open land that sloped upward towards an unshakeable face of rock. The ridge curved north to south, a gray buffer for the higher mountains beyond. As he drew closer, the wet rock cliff had no easy footholds at its' base. It would be nearly impossible for any creature to scale it. However, it wasn't totally out of the realm of his expertise.
Dovev's white bodice snaked along the start of the ridge, wandering the dead-grass hills just at it's feet. Boulders jutted out at odd angles from the ridge, and Dovev was able to clamber up onto several ledges. Although the ridge still loomed to his right, the boulders allowed a vantage point across the flat slopes of land. White flakes obscured his gray eyes as the sky boiled ominously above him. But it was a familiar feeling of comfort on his thick arctic coat.

Climbing was her area of expertise. Being reared on faces like this, and growing on ones more perilous, Tonravik had made it to the point she desired to be at with some effort required on her part. Still, the exertion was nothing to her in comparison to the feats she had accomplished elsewhere, and so she was hardly feeling impressed with herself as she scouted the area below for prey. Tonravik had thought she had smelled something, but as of yet, she could not spot it.

A sound below distracted her, and she moves to seek it. Being that it was downwind, she had not smelled them; and the gray sky above breaks, at last, as a flurry of snow began to rain down upon them. It was slow, and in the current season snowfall was intermittent, but it came now. The white wolf was unfamiliar to her, but she observed him regardless. While it was hardly impressive to her that she had managed the climb, she imagined it would be difficult for anyone else to accomplish it. And yet, here was a wolf who accepted the challenge. Her climb had been an incisive one; analyze the face, seek what you can grab, take it. While many would preclude this mountain from their climb, Tonravik was not so limited in her experience. She was not so great as her eminent mother, but she did well enough. Tonravik waited from above, shifting her weight, eager to see the result of his climb, regardless of whether it was success he met, or failure.

His coat became speckled like a robin's egg, but entirely white. Pieces of the milky gray sky flew freely and unhindered through the biting cold of the air as Dovev's muzzle stuck out. Little wet pools of condensation formed on his lip and nostrils as the wolf began to leave his lookout post. The ground became sharp and scratchy against his hewn nails and calloused pads, and stabbed streams of ice up his legs. As the white male lifted his skull, he could see the upper rim of the ledge pockmarked with pine trees- shelter. The harsh and difficult entrance into the sanctuary was what had drawn his attentions in the first place. Picking somewhere with easy access meant wolves; Dovev did not like to be bothered.
The treacherous ascent started with several stepping stones of shattered outcroppings which provided a jumping point for the large canine. He sprung towards the heavens, his back pads sliding off the slick icey faces of the rock. He recovered, but it exerted a monstrous force onto his shoulders. If Dovev was to keep his skull intact, he would proceed with more caution. As the wolf stopped again to survey his destination once more, a fleeting aroma accompanied by something that hadn't been on the precipice a moment ago. A solitary dark blob had appeared to his upper right, and the brute was searching for any more clues as to what it was. However, the wind was blowing over his shoulders and rushing into the cliffs walls, providing him no opportunity to maintain a steady grasp on the perfume. Whatever it was, Dovev was in no way anxious about confrontation. He just had to climb up these damned rocks first.
The going was slow but meticulous, the jagged and loose footings tumbling away only fractions after his weight had been shifted. He pushed himself to move quickly and in short bursts, trusting his instincts to guide him up the sheer trail. Dovev had almost reached the top, however, when his front left pillar pivoted his frame the wrong way. His body was slammed against the blackened stone, slick with snow as a rock broke loose and dropped onto his left foot. He almost let out a sharp yelp, but quickly bit it back and the only sound that echoed from his tight lips was the thrum of a snarl. He scrambled up the last of the cliff wall, holding his bleeding paw aloft to the elements. On solid ground, Dovev quickly moved forward from the lips of the ridge, his paws leaving a trail of three legs and small dark spots. He could now clearly identify the elusive scent, and surprise, it was his own species. Only doing God knows what. The black form farther down was a black she-wolf, apparently watching Dovev's attempt to scale the ridge. He'd made it, but his paw throbbed. Put into the obvious disadvantage, the ivory wolf was no less prepared to defend himself. His silver gaze stared pointedly across, audits thrown forward on his crown and ruff bristling slightly. He had taken a liking to these lands, even if they had tried to smash his front joints.

Tonravik watched, and as he struggled, she continued to do so without flinching. His injury was met with the narrowing of her eyes, and yet, he carried on. An admirable trait. His perseverance was something to be respected, and when he rose to the top, Tonravik lingered in her spot for an instant. Perhaps he did not need aid. But perhaps he did.

She moved forward without trepidation. She knew full well she had the upper hand given his circumstance, but Tonravik hardly desired to take advantage of him. Her walk was slow and confident, but not her typical swagger that might make him feel threatened. She did not seek to dominate.

The alpha paused after there was a comfortable distance between them. Her eye did not fall onto his leg; she was not assessing an enemy here, and was already conscious of his current weakness. Her ears shifted in a neutral manner, and she stated the obvious: You are hurt. Ever eloquent, the woman left it at that.

The exacerbated cut on his foot's hide would heal fine with no permanent damage, but the current pain it created was unsettling for the large brute. Dovev had scaled the ridge specifically to lay claim to the surrounding outcroppings and valleys that would soon become entrenched in snow. He did not suspect anyone would even venture this far into the uplands. There was nothing here. The male could hardly even imagine how he would scrape out a living, save for hunting down the odd mountain goat or small prey eking out a living within the sparse trees.
His body was firmly planted on the ground, cranium twisted to gaze vacantly on the oncoming female. Even the slightest nuance was picked up by Dovev's keen observations as she spoke. You are hurt. There was nothing threatening or challenging in her tone or stance, and there was no reason not to. The land was a desolate field of craggy rocks and grass, with pine forests rimming the lengths. But the male was drawn here, and presently he knew the area would provide some length of shelter and perhaps sustenance. His iridescent pools lost their dangerous glint, and his breath pooled in a steamy cloud from his muzzle. No matter how he acted, right now was not the time to be picking a fight. Even if his paw was only slightly bent up. With healthy respect for their distance, Dovev shifted slightly, the crunch of tough autumn grass crackling under his pawpads. I imagine it'll be fine in a few days, he responded in a placated tone that carried a subtle undertone. The male had one eye trained on her, and was ready to turn and snap at any moment. There would be no hesitancy.