Neverwinter Forest on my shoulders

None of the wolves of Tartok could read minds, but they were apt at reading bodies, faces, the most minuet of details that most forgot as they chose to favor voice. How the stillness of ones face could imply that there was a storm coming, and that this was the calm. How the expressiveness meant that there may be dishonesty. Tonravik spoke best when she did so with her body, much like her mother. She and Siku were not so very different, though Siku had achieved far more by now than Tonravik had (though now, she seeks to begin, to achieve just as much if not more than her).

As Aguta came into sight, her tail slapped at her hindquarters eagerly. A low grunt was emitted, and as she noted the food brought, she chuffed her thanks. Tonravik wasted no time. They were growing in number, and so kills came often now; but not too often. She would soon be replenished enough to resume her former, infrequent hunting schedule of large game with pack.

Tonravik is quick to scarf down what meat she felt necessary, and then she picks up the leftovers (what little was left of it) and gestures toward Silvertip, which jutted upward in the beyond. What do you think?

To her, it looked like home. Theirs. Tartok.