Silvertip Mountain paradise

She was pleased when he joined her. Although he had asked, many kept away from her. The Tartok woman could understand. She was nothing like the gentle beasts they knew. Every day had been a fight, in the North; and she had seen war at a tender age. She was born in that time, hidden; but a suckling, mewling kitten, hidden, a precious gem. But her mothers success meant the continuation of her life. And when she grew to become one, after learning plenty valuable lessons, Tonravik sought to broaden her horizons. One thing remained true, constant. Mountains. Always mountains.

Tonravik shifts toward him some, before moving to lead the way, to better smell him. Was he of pack, or was he rogue? Her tail is relaxed, though there is a tenseness at its base, a yearning to lift (instinct, sheer instinct); but there was no reason to. She, as of then, was no leader. But if ever there was a place to protect, it was this one. Erected ears twitch as murky brown eyes take in all of him. She was larger. Tonravik, made for the kill; he, the chase. He would be a good hunting partner. She attempts to sniff, to nudge him roughly as though to say well met, before the she-bear turns to take him up on his insistence, to lead the way. Her muzzle first is lifted, taking to the air, nostrils quivering as the breeze comes her way.