backdated to the 18th
great stone spires made pin cushions out of the hovering storm clouds, their peaks disappearing into the grey.
the volatile mass rolls down the sharp slopes, engulfing the hardy pinewood thickets, a herd of meandering goats and lastly, the lands of Wolf.
upon a jagged cliff, something both black and brown stirs. the pup awakens somewhere frigid and wind-licked, and immediately lets out a soft whine.
where was мама? where were the blankets and the basket, and the squirming of warm bodies besides its own?
stubby legs supported it enough for the babe to approach the edge. it stuck its head over it, but the still-sharpening eyesight couldn't reveal what laid below. fear began to creep into its little heart.
it let out a squeal-bark, enhanced in volume and repeated manyfold by the mountainous terrain.
the staff team luvs u