You've been walking for what seems like ages, steady keel, your head hanging low in frustrated determination. The ground shuffling under your paws has been rugged and unforgiving; the craggy trail the scent led you to desires no passage. A misstep and an errant boulder later, the pebbles on the path's edge cascade in a messy collapse, threatening to swallow you along with them. Your claws are scrambling to make purchase with the loose silt on the perilous edge of the cliff, kicking up eddies of dust, moaning bellows of wind carrying it, but fortunately not you, away. You're safe.
You catch your breath, taking assessment--you're in one piece and everything's moving how it should. Well--you suppress a yelp, hot stinging bolt snapping up a rear leg--mostly moving how it should. A cautious paw repeats the motion, extending and retracting; it hurts like all get-out, but nothing is broken, nothing your herbalist back home couldn't help with. Which, thinking of--is likely where your next destination should be. You're confident you'll be okay, but this wound, in this terrain, this far away from your den, is a recipe for disaster. Homewards you limp.
Well, you thought that way was homewards.
The wind swells and wanes in an indecipherable rhythm, cutting through your coat with impunity and biting the edges of your gash as you push through the mountainside woodland. The soil is still so hard. A hapless nose points this way and that, the gales robbing you of your waypoints. You would never admit the worry swelling in your chest, but this was the sort of things you always warned the pups about. Sniff sniff. Hm.
It smells. Incongruously verdant? That-waywards? You can smell the scent of other wolves intermixed with the strangely lush scent, but mostly females--you're not concerned about it and decide to pursue it.
The scent of iron and soil, of spring moisture and dank flora, of... far more plants than you think appropriate leads the way. The soil under your tired paws noticeably softens, detritus giving way to looser, darker soils and spotty dots of green--moss. A quick assessment of the path ahead tells you it's, well. A path. A purposeful one, you mean. Thickening moss carpet continues to ease your pads as you follow your nose warily, unsure where you're being led.
A pair of towering pine trees, gilded in green between, flank the top of a small precipice ahead. They seem to offer you an entryway to... somewhere. You hunker to your elbows in caution in your approach, beginning to hear relaxed pawsteps somewhere in the distance. You freeze. A voice.
"A visitor?" a loud (though soft) growl announces.
You say nothing.
"You are welcome if you mean no harm, friend," the unseen wolf genially offers.
After a moment, still saying nothing, you slowly raise your head above the hill's crest, revealing yourself to the wolf now before your eyes, a heavy-coated canine, their fur a gentle ombre of an autumn forest, gentle puffs of oranges and browns and creams and reds.
The other wolf tilts their head and continues, "Are you hungry or harmed? Lost? We have food and medicine and temporary quarters." A gentle smile, the wolf growls, "This is Mosspaws. We offer mutual aid to our comrades in need. I know trust is difficult to receive, but, well. I smell wolf blood."
You stand, but don't approach yet. The wolf flicks their ears in an idle way, turning on their heels while they offer, "Come. Let me show you to our herbalist, friend."
Ignoring residual wariness, you allow yourself to trust the stranger. You follow.
