Her days were not terribly productive. She had yet to meet any pack wolves, but in time she would seek them out. Tonravik had no idea her intentions here yet but in time, Tartok would again come to be in another location. All who knew her mother were inspired by her; and she herself could not idle. Not any longer. She looked to another mountain this day, not limiting herself to Silvertip. If there was a better peak, she would take it.
Her long-legged stride took her to the cool heights of this place. She took her time, deciding to travel by day to grow used to the horrific heat. One day she would need to be accustomed to it, and who knew if that time would be soon? The forest upon the mountain was comforting and cooling both, and she navigated around the terrain slowly.
Their paths would inevitably collide. Tonravik did little to avoid that; perhaps he would speak, perhaps not. Her interest in him was plenty when she saw his stature, and so it is she who pauses when they are near enough to one another. He reminds her of someone, but it is a being from a story, not a memory.
She does not think what she does is strange; the proud wolf had little to be ashamed of, if anything; but she merely observes, waits for him to come closer so she could further inspect him. She is utterly still, blending with her surroundings, but not at all hidden or discreet in what she did.
He does not speak. He seems rigid, but then at ease. It is only then Tonravik approaches, her own head held proudly aloft but her chin slightly tucked, prepared to completely press to her throat if need be. Tonravik took the others stillness as consent to explore them, and yet she pauses when parallel to him, her tail twitching slightly. Give and take. She draws slightly closer, and would only desist if he emitted a sound that would give her caution; but who was he, where did he come from, did he belong?
Tonravik was unperturbed by the other lifting their head; they were in free territory, and she was not his leader by any means. He seemed to enable her to interact with him, physically, and so she pushed her snout gently toward the area where tail met rump to learn of him. His age, where he had been, and those he had been around. None smelled familiar. He bore the body one of Tartok might have, and she had been hopeful; but perhaps not. If she felt any disappointment, there was none to be seen at all. She withdrew and drifted forward, and then stopped to turn to face him again. Words were utterly useless to her. It was clear he did not live here. Where was his pack? Her eyes darted around him, and fell to him again.