The Floodlands I feel you in my arms, but you're hardly even with me

For @Silaluk

Observe and report. The job was simple -- but even the most simple tasks were necessary to the well being of the branch, to Tartok. A herd traveled north away from the mountain, cutting a trail of trampled brush in its wake. From the hoof prints in the muck, the hunter, Aklark, could estimate the size of the herd he tracked. There were six, perhaps seven, distinct trails that weaved into the flat lands. So, despite his enormity, Aklark followed the trail in a silent, careful, and almost ghost-like manner.

The trail led into a frozen murk. The run-off from from the mountains leading into the Floodlands ran dry in winter, yet the ground remained damp in the places that creeks once ran. The place became a half-frozen mire in which the freezing mud became a dirty slush. His paws sank into the earth, leaving deep imprints as Aklark pushed forward. 

The trail of hoof-prints continued onward. But as of yet, there was no herd in sight.

Silaluk was nearby, and followed the scent of Aklark idly. The collective whole of Tartok traveled together, understanding well strength in numbers when it came to their task. She was at their helm, unshakable and strong. With their number, now, they could surely hunt and fell something—when that thing was found. Silaluk did not hunger, yet, though did not desire to feel the pangs hunger could bring. 

Aklark was in her eye-sight, and she closed the distance between them with powerful, long strides. She caught the very same scent he had; the whole of them would follow these creatures to where they migrated to. It was their biological code, and Winter was only just beginning. The tracks were not so old, but old enough that the thought of them having a ways to go occurred to her.

She drew alongside him, now, her head lifting as she moved to brush her shoulder against his own. Her muzzle then moved to sweep against the earth, gathering the very same details as Aklark, and quietly processing them.

He listened. The hum of the fridged winter wind swept through the leafless trees. Aklark looked and saw them bend, bowing their branches in deferece before the wind's might. The trees did as nature bid, and so did he. Nature compelled him to hunt. His senses were honed in like a perfectly calibrated machine, processing all he could from the clues he was provided. The scent of the herd was faint, distant. Yet, the visual cues of their presence remained. Hoof-print trails and well trodden grass guided his path forward.

It was then that he heard the step of a wolf through the murk behind him. So engrossed in the trail, Aklark's attention did not turn. Yet when she came beside him, he could tell her identity from touch -- from smell. Silaluk. He regarded her with a throaty chuff in greeting and brushed back along her flank. Her presence was appreciated, especially now as the trail of hoof-prints seemed to taper off into non-existance as the ground became more compact.

Her head swung upward and she turned to peer at her comrade, tail waving slowly behind her at his greeting. It seemed the trail ended here, though the two of them would know better. The land simply was more firm when not on an old waterbed. Silaluk was not to be discouraged or dissuaded by this. The head bitch was certain that she and Aklark would find the trail again, and her tail flicked behind her. They had filled their stomachs not too long ago with the flesh and blood of goat, and so their prowling lacked urgency. Still, it was an important task they worked on. They followed the herd as they went, and by the time the four-legged creatures were found perhaps it would be time to hunt again.

Silaluk craved the bison of the mountain. They were difficult beasts and the hunts were often long, but the resulting feast lasted for many days. The wolves of Tartok were as large as the creatures they hunted, it seemed; for now they followed these swifter creatures... but it was all a means to the certain end. Tonravik had spoken of the bison belonging on the Spire, and she looked forward to hunting those beasts again, but for now following any food at all was wise, for they all seemed to travel in one universal direction that would ultimately keep them all fed.

Like his superior, Aklark did not give up hope as the tracks faded. However, hope did not stave off his frustration with the circumstance. With his nose steeped in the browning grass, Aklark huffed, lashing out against the compact dirt itself. The job would not be as easy as he had initially thought as all things typically were. Yet, though he was stripped of one sensory marker -- there was still smell. The scent was fading, but one thing was certian: the herd was heading on a north-eastern track. But if they did not continue to follow the trail, the window of scent would close, and their bounty would be lost to nature.

He composed himself quickly. His fiery temper died like a fast burning flame. He looked back and nodded silently to Silaluk before continuing on in the direction of the fading scent. All they could do was continue on. And when they finally found something solid, Aklark would leave it to his superior to assemble the rest of the company.

This was the way of the wolf. 

They lived for The Hunt, and for The Family. There were others in the world that thrust themselves into something more humane, and ultimately they perished. Silaluk had seen what emotions could do to another, and had no desire to fall victim to them. It seemed, fortunately, to not be in her genetic code; Silaluk and her family, all of them, all of Tartok, survived through their heathen perspective, and their savage outlook. Their strength was as much in themselves as it was in one another. 

Though the trail they followed was weak, it was enough. It was more than nothing. They would head this way, and should this trail ever end they would find another. But they had seen the imprint of their pray in the earth, and she did not think that the entirety of the herd would escape them.

For what felt like hours, the pair traveled in pursuit of a ghost in absolute silence. Aklark wasn't necissarly the talkative type, nor were any of the wolves of Tartok he had found. Like the rest of his newfound kin, he preferred to let his body language speak for him. Idle conversation, it was beneath him: unnatural. In fact, while off-putting to some, the silence felt comfortable and it allowed Aklark to devote his all of his senses in full to the task at hand. No petty distractions.

After a long bout of following a fading trail of scent, Aklark found exactly what he was looking for. A pile of scat had been dropped a few meters away. Aklark honed in on it like a missle. There was much to be learned from a pile like this: timing, placement, the health of the herd, even the extent of their diet. Aklark studied it like a scholar studies a text-book as he placed his nose close and inhaled. He could see that the individual pelets had cracked in the winter sun and had dried. A fair amount of time had passed.

But, now -- he felt certain of his trajectory. He turned to his superior to share the information he had garnered. "Three days. Four, maybe," he said, attempting to account for both the movement of the herd, their trajectory, and the ability to mobilize the rest of Silaluk's wolves. He then stepped away, making room for his leader to see, smell, and draw conclusions from the pile.

Silaluk's nostrils took in the scent of the fecal matter left behind, moving toward it even as Aklark did. As he examined it she did so with him, not at all mindful of personal space—a construct that sometimes she regarded, sometimes she did not—in the moment, their priority was all she considered. Her ear pivoted toward him as he spoke, and Silaluk found herself agreeing with him (unsurprisingly, as he had always been a good tracker himself). She lifted her head to inspect Aklark himself, her cool eyes brushing over his rugged, strong features. Then her nose lifted toward the sky, and after observing the oncoming, mild weather, Silaluk spoke in her low, gruff voice, rough with disuse.

We will move out at nightfall, she decided. It would give the wolves some time to rest from their long travels to the Wilds, and the herd minimum time to move onward. They were fleet of foot and used to strict schedules, and Silaluk did not think it wise to risk any of them being fatigued before moving on. This seemed the best course for them all.

She was a thing of the wild, just like he was. She knew her stature among them -- she knew she was in charge, and she acted upon it without restraint. The personal space Aklark possessed was her own. She made it so, owning it with her presence. He respected, no, revered the way she handled her strength and willpower. To do what one wanted, when one wanted, without the threat of consequence, it was damn near enviable.

Once he drew away to give his leader space, she spoke. He quickly nodded in silent agreement before settling his gaze on the mountains behind them in the foggy distance. Without the pack, there was no point following the trail further. He chuffed and gestured clumsily toward their temporary home.

To Aklark's gesturing, Silaluk shook her head and shifted her weight. They would be moving out from this point; it would be a waste of good energy to go back, only to return here again. Silaluk knew that their brethren were not too far from here, and so threw up her head to call for them. Tonight, this would be their rendezvous. She moved to nip Aklark in a rough display of her affinity toward him, tossing her head backward and snorting to incite him in a rough game of chase. The Floodlands were now wide and open, and Silaluk feinted forward with a fiendish snarl: run, the sound suggested. She was It.

To return to the mountain would be an unnecessary expendeture. Silaluk made that clear in her actions. Though Aklark agreed, it was his draw to the mountain that called him back. He made no comment however and he watched in silence as he called for the rest of those who traveled with Tartok. They would all arrive shortly, but the distance between them stretched for miles. To pass the time, Silaluk pressed Aklark to play chase. Their roles were already pre-supposed.

Beneath his rough outer layer of silence, savagery, and stoicism, Aklark played with those he trusted with enthusiastic abandon, much like a pup does with its siblings. There were few he trusted as much a Silaluk. She had, and would, see that side of him without resistance. So, as if on cue, Aklark began to sprint across the flatlands with Silaluk likely nipping on his heels.

Silaluk was not made for the chase—she was built for the kill. Though she had as much endurance as any wolf, speed was not her strongest suit. But there was little reason to worry for this within Tartok, as there were plenty who could run as swiftly as the deer; they slowed down what she could not, in speed, capture—and that was when the odds shifted in her favor, never to shift the other way again.

Silaluk worked with her strengths, primarily, but occassionally on her weaknesses. There was no real reason to do so, as Tartok was a cohesive unit who understood the hunt of prey and the hunt for victory. Even when Silaluk romped and 'played', she gave no quarter; as soon as she saw the tell-tale flex of Aklark's muscles, she surged forward to give chase. Aklark was large, as she was. Silaluk moved in groundeating strides across the terrain, thundering forward with abandon, as terrible and as devastating as a runaway train could be.