At one point in time, Misty Mountain stood opposite of Rainbow Cliff, and these rose to the sky as the only peaks in Blossom Forest. Since the magical change of the land, an entire chain of peaks rose from the bowels of the earth to become the Culter Unlaeddod - the Teeth of the Gods. Misty Mountain is still of the peaks, but many others exist as well. They run from north to south, from east to west. Atop some of the peaks, snow covers them year round, making the paths slippery and hazardous. Others are lower in altitude and are extremely humid, covered in thick, dense forests with mists swirling between each of the trunks. Others still are bare - naked boulders rising and falling haphazardly.

These chains of peaks do connect many of the packs, and they hold many things to explore - forbidden forests, deep and mysterious caves, beautiful scenic cliffs. However, one must have care - if you fall, it is a long, long, long way down...

Due to the varying terrains, many prey options are available. For those scared of injury, you may find ptarmigans, ravens, crows, squirrels, dormice, or rabbits. The adults hunting alone can find mountain goats... but for those hunting in a pack, there are elk, moose, and Bighorn Sheep.




The lass held herself like blue-blooded royalty—a creature that knew her worth and her limitations in such a way that she was utterly unstoppable by mere mortals, having weighed every action she would ever complete before ever lifting a paw. One could not call her arrogant, because arrogance suggested ignorance. And the black-and-white beauty was no plebian. Kershov understood this the instant her calm glacier-blue irises sliced toward his face. Such magnificent poise, such admirable self-possession. He found himself blinking in quiet surprise, having not anticipated that such a seemingly delicate girl could project such a chilling presence with nothing more than a simple glance. And all of these thoughts—of her maturity, of her worthiness of respect, of her silent wisdom—slid into his skull just from that first point of contact between their gazes, a flood of information retrieved by instincts honed to perfection over the years.

Honed . . . and perhaps growing dull. For no sooner had Kershov formed his powerful first impression than the hideous sickness that had pounced on him earlier came crawling back, shading his singular eye with darkness. He saw an independent she-wolf, yes, but he also saw prey. This high in altitude, her screams wouldn’t find anyone. Perhaps her composure would shatter like the emerald ice that stole the clear color from her pretty windows.

Her voice shook him from his private mire, the sweet brisk tone cutting neatly through the mud trying to muck up his tired brain. Kershov felt an appreciative grin tug at the handsome half of his muzzle. Conversations were so hilariously pointless; he’d become accustomed to using his voice in such a way as to win advantages and install fear, yet talking for the sake of talking had always been a chore. A waste of air. After all, if you talked to a stranger you had to want something from them: a friend, an enemy, information. What did he want from this mysterious lass peering down at him from her throne of snow? A distraction, perhaps? Something to listen to other than the shrieks still echoing in his cranium? “Most assumptions are always mistaken,” he returned, a humorous glint in the fathomless depth of his black pool. “For instance: I assumed you were in danger so near that precipice. Now I realize I am in the company of a varg who knows these cliffs better than the stones themselves.” Yes, distractions were useful. If the arctic outlaw poured his focus into pretending to be a normal wolf innocently traversing the drifts, maybe he’d start to actually feel that way. Maybe he would handsomely converse himself back into normalcy. With each absurdly advanced flex of his dry wit he could pretend that the uncultured beast threatening to rip him apart this very second was nothing more than an inconvenient dream.

As she spoke further, ever coolly collected, Kershov tread cautiously forward so that he might stand parallel to her, overlooking the same frozen kingdom. Now he noticed another interesting facet of her hidden personality: the girl was a weapon. It was entirely possible she did not realize it; the intensity of her stare held no aggression, no hunger that marked her as a tool thirsting for the next taste of blood. Regardless, this was the sort of soul that fit well in the ranks of mercenaries. Unafraid, intelligent, searching beyond walls for information that would best benefit her knowledge. Ker believed this obsidian-splashed maiden could look upon an eviscerated body without blinking. “Acute observation, m’lady.” He still wore his vague playful smirk, body language lax despite the acid churning in his stomach. If he lunged just right, would that be enough to send her tumbling to her death? Or would she grab onto his scruff and take him with her? “Tundra wolves tend to recognize fellow survivors. It’s a rather exclusive club. Allow me to make another mistaken assumption: do you find yourself up here because it feels so much like home?”

A few beats of silence. The ice dragon swore he could feel her pulse through the raw ends of his nerves. “Kershov,” he murmured, by way of introduction.


【King of Abendrot – tied to Scarlet Nights – father to Kirastasia and Kavik – LSVK】


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