It was supposed to be winter. Of course, Hawthorne knew the seasons were set--he wasn’t slow by any means--but… It should have been colder, dryer. While his coat had already grown long and plush for a cold mountain winter, the air was still simply cool and heavy with lingering rains. Relatively cool, that is. To a wolf who was jogging around in their winter coat, it felt unbearably hot.

Panting heavily, the young wolf beat a familiar path up the mountainside, his large paws sure despite the wet stone underfoot. It was the only thing to do, really. Down by his mother’s den, it was horribly warm, too warm for his heavy coat. But the higher up the mountain he climbed, the cooler and dryer the air became. Mountains were blessedly wonderful in that way; even in the heat of summer, you could find a cool relief in the lingering snows at the peak. And that was just where the boy intended to go: all the way to the top. Some said it was too cold this time of year, that the persistent rains would make the top third of the mountain a treacherous climb, but…

Hawthorne shrugged away the warnings of a dozen pack members, refusing, witch uncharacteristic stubborness, to be deterred. He was hot and miserable and just wanted to be in the snow...like, yesterday.

Taking a narrow path along a bluff, Hawthorne turned the corner which lead to a wide, steep grade of stone cutting a swath toward the higher cliffs. The young wolf was just starting his trek up the loose stone and gravel when his soft green eyes caught sight of movement ahead. Pausing mid-step, the boy narrowed his eyes on the creamy white dots above, and pleasant smile pulled back his lips as he recognized half a dozen nanny goats picking at the coarse scrub between the rocks. A peculiar reddish hue among the cream colored bodies had the boy’s tail waving slowly behind him. He had only ever seen one red goat among the various herds scattered over the mountain, and it was a special goat indeed.

“Graham!” Hawthorne’s face split wide in a grin as the ram’s head shot upward, its wide, dark eyes finally picking out the sandy brown and chocolate hued wolf against a terrain that suited him all too well. The nannies had scattered the moment they heard the young wolf’s bark, but the rusty bearded ram remained stubbornly in place.

With a small bounce of pure joy, the boy bound toward the ram without a care, his expression purely delighted. “Graham, where have you been?” he called out to the ram as he closed the distance, knowing full well the simple creature had no idea what he was saying. “It’s been weeks! Maybe months! I feel like I haven’t seen you around in ages, buddy!”

The ram let out a loud, guttural grunt. Hawthorne paused, head tilting slightly to the side and brows knitting curiously. He’d never heard the little billy make that noise before. Slowly, Hawthorne walked closer, but froze has the ram made a decisively agitated stomp, its head lowering in what was obviously not the normal playful display the boy was used to.

“Graham, what’s wrong, budd--YAH!” Hawthorn’s concerned tone was chopped short with a sudden noise of surprise as the ram charged forward with sudden force. Hawthorne skittered across the wet stone, barely managing to dodge out of the way. “What’s gotten into you?” The boy asked with a sudden caution coloring his voice, the fur along his back lifting slightly in alarm.