Her reuniting with her mother had served her well. Tonravik's instincts had truly set themselves within her. They could no longer be ignored, and it was a decision she had made for herself to begin and build rather than feel Siku's fangs hound her heels. There was no question of what she would do. Her brothers had established themselves—she had seen—and so it was her own turn. Her uncertainty prior could have meant the early end to a dream she did not know she had. But it was a dream no longer. It would be reality in time.
Her return had not been long. She, too, was tired from the long journey. Her youth meant that her joints did not ache so heavily as they might have were she older, but it did not mean she was any less tired for it. The morning after, she would have to seek Aguta. She could not recall whether or not she had warned her of her potential leave. Tonravik would learn to be as communicative as her mother when it came to important matters such as soul-searching
, something she did not know was even required in her life. Tonravik was impulsive. Her impulse now told her to claim, to lead, to take. And so she would.
The weather was growing cooler. Days would become more bearable here. Once, she could only travel by night. Now she could become more acclimated to the mornings and evenings here; it was a good time to return. She woke by noon, and the winds nipped at her furs hungrily. The sensation was one she could appreciate, and she picked her way through the territory, recalling its nuances from her previous days here. None, in her time gone, had taken these lands; only Neverwinter Forest, which displeased her, but for the while the territory was far enough that its claiming was not (yet) to be a true bother to her.
She descended. She sought the scents of Toothless and of Aguta, of Lasher, who she had met fleetingly. She was unsure if they had joined others in her time gone. She could not begrudge them if they did. Still, she hoped that with them, Tartok would dig its roots in this soil.
Long-legged strides took her toward an unfamiliar scent. Her head was high and so, too, was her tail; in time, this land would not be neutral. Best the stranger learn this now rather than later.
The other did not take well to her posturing, and Tonravik let out a low snarl. Tuwawi had yet to step onto the land itself, truly, and so Tonravik turned her body sidelong so that the red-furred woman could see the length of her. Her intent was to inform the other of her possession. The Mountain was her own. The other was free to roam, but not here. The Tartok woman would do more than simply tread on the scarred female, otherwise.
Tonravik did not move otherwise, waiting for the woman to respond in whatever way she might. She herself took a single step forward, but her eyes lingered upon Tuwawi, not at all expectant but hard, curious. Her fangs, thus far, were sheathed. What the red woman perceived as excessive confidence Tonravik knew to be what was her right. She was an Alpha, a woman who would change this peaceful place, shake the bones of those that believed the weak had any place at all in this life. Her mother had taught her, and taught her well, how the body was ones greatest tool. Tonravik asserted herself with this rather than words. Words were wind, water, sand. They could not be grasped. Tasted, but how it left one always wanting! Slipping away. Actions could not be doubted. How sincere her every movement was, would always be!
Tonravik watched, waited. She prepared her defenses, and her muscles flexed within her as she eagerly awaited the moment to be on the offensive; for her best defense was her offense, to push and push, to disable the other from assailing her by being the tsunami of a wolf she was capable of being, plowing into them over and over as she tore her enemy asunder, a wave that relentlessly crashed even when one surfaced for air. She would never let them breath, keep them in her embrace, covetous, all-consuming.
She was still, then. Calm. There was no better predictor that a storm might come than the quietude and peace the world seemed to bring...
But there was no need. The other seemed to stand down, lacking the desire to test her will and aggression alike. It was then the other moved forward. Her pace told Tonravik all she needed to know, as did her body. The body could not deceive, not for wolves. They were incapable of using their physical being as a tool to create trust when trust ought not to be granted. Physical behavior was so honest. So true. Tonravik shifted to face Tuwawi now herself, to take a step toward her. She would greet the other in turn as instinct would demand her to, and so too internal desire.
Another step forward. Together they would close the distance. Discover one another by scent and by touch. Tonravik licks her chops as she leans inward to sniff hungrily, curiously, wetting her nose so as to better capture the scents she wore.
In mere seconds, she learned of Tuwawi and her most recent expeditions. There were patches of terrain debris upon her here and there, small, miniscule, but enough for a wolf's keen nose to sort through and understand. Tuwawi had not belonged to any for a while, and the familiarity of scents such as Tartok's other legion she had seen in passing (given to a brother when Sevendeath had felt himself too old to continue his lead) was not at all there, for Tuwawi had been gone too long to have seen that change, so Tonravik could not know her—
Then the other spoke. She seemed to relax, but internally she stiffened. This wolf knew her mother. You are Tartok. Tonravik nodded. She looked to Tuwawi, certain the other would have not acknowledged this if she had abandoned Tartok altogether. But she looked... lost. Still. We are Tartok,
she corrected the other with certainty; her dark brown eyes look to the perplexed wolf colored in shades of the sun and the earth alike so as to check for her reaction. The other had seemed lost, and so Tonravik asserts, You have been found.
Her plume arcs and twitches, as though this was a good thing; Tonravik did believe it to be so. Tartok stood together. Brothers in arms.
Tonravik shifts her weight, waiting for what Tuwawi might do. She had not heard the others name on the wind, but if the other knew of her mother and of Tartok, surely she wore the name, too. And if she fled, her crime might be realized then, and she might need to take more than her tongue—
But she was impassive, her features as stony as her own mothers could turn, wearing Siku's perpetual grimace that was remarkably her own to the very bitter end of those down-turned lips.
A strong jaw, chiseled features, and a hollowed stare... The likeness of her mother was striking, and it was startling how well Tonravik's origins had been masked by her sire's lineage. Kilgharrah had passed before Tuwawi's inception into Tartok, and she had never met or known the man. Only the Issumatar's courtship with a wolf named Aves rested on within her thoughts, floating like oil on water; and it reminded Tuwawi how quickly Siku's desires swayed. Was it best for the pack? Or simply most convenient for for their leader? Sometimes these two things seemed synonymous. Regardless, having an outsider so blatantly favored by their matriarch had caused grief within the ranks. Tartok was fickle like that - raw and uncensored - but the sense of perpetual existence was infinite, and the strength Tuwawi once felt was more than tangible. Perhaps she had become a cynic, now; jaded by a lifetime of struggling to survive under the stifling grip of others who called themselves tall. But was it enough to deter her decision? Did it diminish the sense of responsibility to those who took her in?
Her half-lidded gaze dropped to the ground as Tuwawi weighed her options, but Tartkok would not - could not - be refused; and it wasn't because she was afraid of loosing her tongue. There would be worse things to live with. But could she put her trust in this wolf? A number of variables existed, and yet a small glimmer within Tonravik's chestnut eyes seemed to quell Tuwawi's inner burdens, and let her mind rest easy. But one thing was certain- Tuwawi would be a difficult beast to tame.
"Tuwawi," she replied simply, letting her words be used in the most economical way possible. Her raspy accent jumbled the Inuit language somewhat clumsily. No other information was provided beyond that, after all... more was certain to come in time. Her ruddy ears rolled forward, awaiting the pitch wolf's response as she gazed out onto the mountain where Tartok would grow anew.
Tuwawi. The eyes of Tonravik seemed to glow. This was the woman Siku had named. Her affinity toward Tuwawi seemed to extend only slightly; but a woman trusted by her mother would become trusted by her in time. Tartok implicitly trusted one another. There was nothing about Tuwawi that set her on edge; if anything, she was more at peace in knowing who this was.
And so at last she steps backward, gesturing toward the mountain. Home. It would be home to Tuwawi, too, if this was her desired station. She waited to see what the ember would decide, loath to force her. There would need to be a name to their battalion, and in time they would decide one. But for now, they were the beginnings of Tartok. They would consume any who decreed themselves enemy in their destructive whirlwind, and leave nothing of said enemy in their wake. Tuwawi had been lost, but Tonravik sought to find the identity she fought to grasp.