The Hearthstone den
Hearthstone Den
You step forward, paws pressing into well-worn earth, the scent of pine and damp stone filling your nose. The wind shifts, carrying the distant howls of wolves calling out to each other, their voices strong and unwavering. This place is alive.
The entrance is marked by the low-hanging branches of a gnarled tree, its roots twisting through the rock as if gripping the mountain itself. Beyond, the den stretches into a sheltered cavern, warmed by the lingering heat of the sun-baked stone. The air is rich with the mingling scents of prey—faint traces of elk, hare, and the musk of something recent, still fresh on the pelts of returning hunters.
Inside, wolves move with purpose. Hunters, their fur still damp from the river's edge, shake free the dust of their journey before settling down, sharing quiet words about the chase. Their muscles ripple with the energy of the wild, their eyes bright with the thrill of the hunt. Further back, near the jagged opening where the wind funnels through, the scouts prepare for their next journey. Some are resting, stretched out against the cool stone, while others scan the horizon, their bodies poised as if they could leave at any moment.