Misty Mountain is opposite of Rainbow Cliff. Mists hover year-round at this high altitude, mistaken by some to be thin clouds. Thin layers of snow cover the mountain, making some areas slippery and hazardous.

Some think it romantic, a place to bring their mates, while others come to play and romp. However, all must agree that there is some level of mystery and spookiness hovering about with the mists...

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brains and brawn [cs]
IP: 74.199.21.5
Posted on October 5, 2017 at 00:17:57 AM by cynbel

Part of Cynbel wanted to celebrate his recent victory, bright pride injecting his veins with the rushing high he’d once ridden as king. A triumphant song thrummed in his throat and he concentrated hard to keep it contained. In a sense, he had won something incredible: Nimueh’s patience. Not her trust, of course—the fiery vixen had made this explicitly clear with her scathing words and a scorning glare that sought to burn him even as she granted him access to her pack. “We are not friends. You ruined that.” Cynbel harbored no delusions that any part of his childhood friend remotely longed for him. Nim had constructed a dense wall between them brick by heavy brick, shoving him backward with each step he took . . . yet she still gave him a chance. She gave him a home. A smirk tugged at the corners of Cynbel’s handsome muzzle as he traveled, tail arching over his spine as he reveled in delicious waves of satisfaction. Nimueh might have driven him out with teeth snapping at his tail instead, but here he walked. He felt drunk on hope. Beginning a new life in Blossom Forest marked a significant step in the path toward fixing his life and earning him everything he wanted—namely the mysterious Iberian wolfess with eyes like snow, whose place in his heart stretched wider each passing day.

“Now . . . what would Nimueh appreciate?” The ashen warrior had risen before the dawn, his sunlit portals the brightest thing in the territory as he marched from his new den. His Alphess—and thinking of her as “his Alphess” brought him a bizarre thrill—clearly expected very little from him, barring perhaps another betrayal. She had not laden him with any specific purpose or duty . . . and that was why Cynbel took it upon himself to find worthwhile jobs. No better way to impress a fae, right? Besides, Cyn believed Nimueh would have no choice but to change her mind once she saw that the wolf she used to love still existed. He would work his paws to the bone showing her that the brute who used to defend her from bullies hadn’t disappeared. She had not begged for his help then, and he wouldn’t make her beg now. The old him, the one that had ran at the front of a pack, had earned his place with sweat and aching muscles. You’ll trust me yet, Nimueh. I’ll be the greatest asset to your pack—you’ll see.

Crith Thalmhainn boasted a rugged beauty—acres of harshly cut crimson stone and tough desert scrub that cast needle-shaped shadows under the predawn glow. Cynbel kicked up clouds of fine dirt as he loped toward the border; his greyscale pelt took on a russet hue, dust gathering along his limbs and underbelly. The invisible wall separating this side from that clung very faintly to warped rock formations and cracked earth, reminding Cynbel how recently his dear Nim had claimed this kingdom. Golden irises scanned the distant horizon thoughtfully, tail wagging a slow beat behind him as his senses drank in his surroundings. How far did the border extend? Were all sections of it this weak? Huh . . . that wouldn’t do. In minutes Cynbel had marked a sizeable portion of the fence with his own personal cologne, trying not to think about how little his signature matched the general flavor of Crith. Meshing the pack’s scent with his fur would take time—something the brute possessed plenty of. As long as outsiders knew someone lived here, his job was done.

As the sun burned away sleepy lilacs and soft greys from the sky, Cyn tirelessly paraded down the outer edges of Nimueh’s territory, strengthening the border as he traveled. At last he reached a portion that was all but devoid of Crith Thalmhainn markings—a hole. He stopped short, nares straining to catch any threads of the Iberian Empress that might grasp pitifully to any cacti or boulder . . . nothing. “They must not have reached this section yet . . .” The powerful gladiator peered out toward where he thought the border should connect—when suddenly a clatter of rolling pebbles snared his attention. He immediately swiveled toward the noise, ears thrown forward and hackles quivering ever so slightly, expression neutral yet intently focused. “Who goes there? Show yourself—I mean no harm.”


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