He had been on this mountain for what felt like an eternity, which was a strange sensation because time to him was mostly inconceivable, until he got here apparently. And this evening he wasn't lounging trying to speak with the storm, he was pacing tight restless lines along the slope. His ivory paws cutting the same path again and again where rocks jut beneath the worst of the wind. His large wars adjust with every roll of thunder, counting and waiting. He is timing something. And when another crack splits the sky his head lifts expectantly, like an answer.

Too early... he mutters to himself under his breath. Then he notices the stranger, he glances pausing and assessing the gruff brute. Ah, he calls, his voice drawing over the rain. You picked a great day to climb the only mountain that argues back his mismatched eyes drag over the older wolf, noting the stubborn forward motion, the way he leans into the storm makes him exhale through his nose in a quiet laugh.

Let me guess, he starts, stepping sideways down the slope to intercept without blocking —you saw a challenge and decided the correct response was to meet it head on.

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