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Description
Rain pelted the maze of stone that the wolves of Stonecreek called the Sharpstones. Deer danced towards the cover of the forest while the braver moose stuck around, grazing in the grass while their herd leader stood proudly over the herd, watching them all closely. A reverberation of thunder sounded from the sky, and lit up the dark clouds for a single second. The once brave moose then retreated to the trees. Though there was one soul who still wandered the maze of stones, a large black wolf by the name of Freyr.
His paws were heavy in the mud, yet he did not sink. His trotting was fluid and lively, like a wolf’s should be. Though he did not hold his head high with pride like the moose who once shared the rocks, he kept it low to the ground, his eyes boring into his destination ahead. Where was he going? The heart of the Sharpstones. It was an incredibly stupid idea of his, considering he was one wolf alone in the dangerous maze of stone, but he was confident in his abilities.
Thunder drummed on above him, yet he did not cower, nor did he flinch. He had seen too many storms to count in his days. He simply pushed forward, the rain drenching his thick pelt.
Thoughts pounded in head, but one stood out to him the most. Something was coming on the marrow, he felt it in his bones, and it wasn't a pleasant coming. The gods from his old land were displeased with him for leaving the pack behind at their most vulnerable moment, they must have sent someone after him. Freyr did not fear much, but the wrath of the gods terrified him the most.
Finally he reached his destination, a small clearing amidst the stone. It stood high above the rest of the territory, and the air was thinner than what he was used to. This land was another one of his mediation spots, the thin air helped to clear his head. The black wolf slowed to a walk and stopped in the middle of the clearing, and sat. He shut his light green eyes and breathed in and out, focusing on steadying his air flow. The thoughts that once disturbed his mind slowly began to clear out. Soon, he could barely notice the harsh rain pelting his fur. It was almost as if the earth stopped spinning, and all grew still for just a moment. That one moment of stillness was all Freyr could ever ask for.
A mass of pale brown fur tackled the black male, knocking him to the ground with so much force that it sent him rolling a few feet away from the spot where he originally sat. His vision was beginning to fade, a rock must have struck his head. As he attempted to stand, hoping to regain some consciousness, he quickly fell back on his side, his fur becoming caked in mud. As he looked over to see who his attacker was, all he saw before fainting was a pale brown wolf running from the clearing.

The storm had passed when the black wolf woke from his slumber. As he regained consciousness, he lifted his head up to hopefully spot his attacker. Though, he neither saw nor smelt the wolf. The storm had washed away their scent. Confused and angry, he snarled while getting up from his long, and unwarranted rest. Pain seared through his head while he began to stand, it was a mix of blood loss and vertigo. The rock which he hit his head on was stained with blood, proving his theory. Freyr had no idea how to care for a head injury, so, though it pained him to do so, he began limping out of the once peaceful and serene clearing. His specific definition? The herbalist’s den. At least while he healed he could could get to the bottom of this dangerous mystery.

Description
Rain pelted the maze of stone that the wolves of Stonecreek called the Sharpstones. Deer danced towards the cover of the forest while the braver moose stuck around, grazing in the grass while their herd leader stood proudly over the herd, watching them all closely. A reverberation of thunder sounded from the sky, and lit up the dark clouds for a single second. The once brave moose then retreated to the trees. Though there was one soul who still wandered the maze of stones, a large black wolf by the name of Freyr.
His paws were heavy in the mud, yet he did not sink. His trotting was fluid and lively, like a wolf’s should be. Though he did not hold his head high with pride like the moose who once shared the rocks, he kept it low to the ground, his eyes boring into his destination ahead. Where was he going? The heart of the Sharpstones. It was an incredibly stupid idea of his, considering he was one wolf alone in the dangerous maze of stone, but he was confident in his abilities.
Thunder drummed on above him, yet he did not cower, nor did he flinch. He had seen too many storms to count in his days. He simply pushed forward, the rain drenching his thick pelt.
Thoughts pounded in head, but one stood out to him the most. Something was coming on the marrow, he felt it in his bones, and it wasn't a pleasant coming. The gods from his old land were displeased with him for leaving the pack behind at their most vulnerable moment, they must have sent someone after him. Freyr did not fear much, but the wrath of the gods terrified him the most.
Finally he reached his destination, a small clearing amidst the stone. It stood high above the rest of the territory, and the air was thinner than what he was used to. This land was another one of his mediation spots, the thin air helped to clear his head. The black wolf slowed to a walk and stopped in the middle of the clearing, and sat. He shut his light green eyes and breathed in and out, focusing on steadying his air flow. The thoughts that once disturbed his mind slowly began to clear out. Soon, he could barely notice the harsh rain pelting his fur. It was almost as if the earth stopped spinning, and all grew still for just a moment. That one moment of stillness was all Freyr could ever ask for.
A mass of pale brown fur tackled the black male, knocking him to the ground with so much force that it sent him rolling a few feet away from the spot where he originally sat. His vision was beginning to fade, a rock must have struck his head. As he attempted to stand, hoping to regain some consciousness, he quickly fell back on his side, his fur becoming caked in mud. As he looked over to see who his attacker was, all he saw before fainting was a pale brown wolf running from the clearing.

The storm had passed when the black wolf woke from his slumber. As he regained consciousness, he lifted his head up to hopefully spot his attacker. Though, he neither saw nor smelt the wolf. The storm had washed away their scent. Confused and angry, he snarled while getting up from his long, and unwarranted rest. Pain seared through his head while he began to stand, it was a mix of blood loss and vertigo. The rock which he hit his head on was stained with blood, proving his theory. Freyr had no idea how to care for a head injury, so, though it pained him to do so, he began limping out of the once peaceful and serene clearing. His specific definition? The herbalist’s den. At least while he healed he could could get to the bottom of this dangerous mystery.