Below Zero
Snow powders your paws as you tread upwards. You can feel the air thinning as you continue your journey. The miles of steep rock are the only thing separating you from the forest glade below. Spiky patches of evergreen branches peeking out from under the snow are the only break from the brown of dead trees and the white piled on top of them.
Your crunchy steps are drowned out by a cliffside waterfall you're approaching. Its arc feeds into a wide river that stairsteps down the mountain. Your fur becomes heavy and damp, the stream weighing down like an anklet as you walk against the current. The sun does nothing to warm the winter water, which splashes back up your leg as you move. There are no fish in this river, you note as you look into its crystal clarity, due to either weather or your presence. Dirt and pebbles stir in the riverbed as you step out onto the bank. You shake off your paws and keep going.
By the time you reach the peak it's midday. From where you are you can see the rest of the mountains in the range. Their tops roll with the horizon, the silhouette occasionally broken by a tree or rock outcropping. You can't see a single other animal, and everything other than the evergreens has been buried in the idyllic graveyard. The sound of your breathing and the plumes of cold that result are the only evidence of life you can observe. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, opening your mouth slightly to better catch a scent. There. You smell it before you hear it.
A hawk screeches somewhere in the scenic void. It calls again; you spot it's dark body easily against the spackling of clouds. As it approaches, the nondescript lump where it's feet should be becomes a limp hare between its talons. The hawk claims a perch on the wintry shell of an oak beside you. Snow sluffs onto the ground in a thick, wet thud as the bird lands, and even more follows as it jostles the branch while it eats.
When it finishes, it flies opposite from where it came. You watch it until it vanishes deeper into the range, then you continue in the same direction. Another rock outcropping passes by in your periphery. It barks at you, and you turn to it, perplexed.
You would have turned back were it not for two spots of blue staring you down. The spots tilt to the side, and it's then you realize they're attached to a head. Their eyes are your only way to tell when the wolf moves because the outline of their body blurs with the ground.
More disembodied eyes join the first. They look for a few seconds before some of them go back to what they were doing. The ones that stay huff before eventually following suit. You notice those wolves glancing back at you every so often, clearly undecided about how they feel about your presence.
Your crunchy steps are drowned out by a cliffside waterfall you're approaching. Its arc feeds into a wide river that stairsteps down the mountain. Your fur becomes heavy and damp, the stream weighing down like an anklet as you walk against the current. The sun does nothing to warm the winter water, which splashes back up your leg as you move. There are no fish in this river, you note as you look into its crystal clarity, due to either weather or your presence. Dirt and pebbles stir in the riverbed as you step out onto the bank. You shake off your paws and keep going.
By the time you reach the peak it's midday. From where you are you can see the rest of the mountains in the range. Their tops roll with the horizon, the silhouette occasionally broken by a tree or rock outcropping. You can't see a single other animal, and everything other than the evergreens has been buried in the idyllic graveyard. The sound of your breathing and the plumes of cold that result are the only evidence of life you can observe. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, opening your mouth slightly to better catch a scent. There. You smell it before you hear it.
A hawk screeches somewhere in the scenic void. It calls again; you spot it's dark body easily against the spackling of clouds. As it approaches, the nondescript lump where it's feet should be becomes a limp hare between its talons. The hawk claims a perch on the wintry shell of an oak beside you. Snow sluffs onto the ground in a thick, wet thud as the bird lands, and even more follows as it jostles the branch while it eats.
When it finishes, it flies opposite from where it came. You watch it until it vanishes deeper into the range, then you continue in the same direction. Another rock outcropping passes by in your periphery. It barks at you, and you turn to it, perplexed.
You would have turned back were it not for two spots of blue staring you down. The spots tilt to the side, and it's then you realize they're attached to a head. Their eyes are your only way to tell when the wolf moves because the outline of their body blurs with the ground.
More disembodied eyes join the first. They look for a few seconds before some of them go back to what they were doing. The ones that stay huff before eventually following suit. You notice those wolves glancing back at you every so often, clearly undecided about how they feel about your presence.
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| Pack Leader Maine | ||||||||||||
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