Wolf RPG

Having departed that place, Tonravik did not look back. She understood her subordinates interest in the place, but she herself bore no attachment to it nevermind intrigue. Her interests lay less in the territory itself and more in the advantages it brought to her. While the Glacier she was sure offered much profit, it would only be a matter of time before the land succumbed to the wails of its mourning leader. That weakness was enough to bring Tonravik to longing for a simple mountain with jutting edges and tumultuous paths that would bring any stranger to them to their death.

She was a harsh woman, she knew, and her judgment was often passed quickly. But the massive bear of a wolf had forgotten Tuwawi as soon as she had left that place, glad for the utter silence Echelon brought and gladder still for the fact that her raven aokkatti would never emit a sound so horrific as the screeching banshee of the Glacier.

The thought alone made the woman shake her head, returning to the quiet forest often characterized as eerie. Tonravik herself found the place peaceful, and relished in the dark.

The quiet of the Blackfoot Forest was all that Altair needed, for the past year he had lived in woods similar to these. Keeping his head low and problems to himself. An easy enough task to do when living alone and crossing paths with only a very remote number of other canines. The vagrant kept to a slow pace as he moved down a well worn trail, no point wasting his energy by rushing around since Altair was never quite sure when or where his next meal would come.

Piercing jade green eyes spotted a dark figure in the shadows, his ears rising alertly. Any usual meeting with a stranger would cause the rouge to simply shrug and walk on without a second thought. Yet the scent of this she-wolf was familiar and as he slowed down to a near halt it would take Altair a fleeting moment to work out where they had met before. Their previous encounter had been brief but was this not the Shabanu of Tartok? Providing his memory served him well of course, the scent engrained in his memory. Perhaps it was just because he did not come across that many muscular female wolves with coats as dark as the night sky.

The creamy hilt of the Prince's maw was raised slightly, nearing her now and aiming to stand directly in her path. "Tartok." A single word, a name and nothing more. It was just a test to see if it meant anything to her. To him it was a well known pack name, a clan of mercenaries that had lived in a nearby valley as he grew up as a child. Sure enough when Samarkand disbanded he had run into them again - where he had met Tonravik before.

As she moved, there was suddenly an obstacle that was neither tree nor shrub, but wolf. He acknowledged her as though he knew something, and this brought her hackles ever-upward as she assessed him swiftly. But he spoke before she could draw her own conclusions, and Tonravik chuffed in acknowledgment. The gargantuan woman looked to him, his own scent very telling. She herself knew little of Samarkand other than its patriarchy (which was not firsthand intel, but something her mother had informed her of). Tonravik did not deal well with that sort, given she was a woman who had done much to earn her place at the top... and would do much more to regain it again.

There was also the fact that she could be wrong, and so, she did what she could not to assume. Instead, she gave him a pointed look that prompted him to explain. Tonravik knew Tartok wolves were of a specific pedigree, but there was more to this. Perhaps he had a desire to run with them, or perhaps this was a mission of his own.

His loyalty to the Persian wolves, Samarkand and the Frostfurs alike had long since been abandoned. Of course all three left him high and dry first, it had taken him years to steadily realise his Shah was gone - the pack had left him behind as if he were nothing to them. Well what do you expect, he was no firstborn son and nor was he a child of Nita. He was doomed to be a failure from his name day.

Would he ever consider running with another pack, well of course if they had a strong Shah, an Alpha Male worthy of his respect. Yet all he could see standing in front of him right now was this woman built like a tank and perhaps as powerful as one too but a she-wolf all the same. His bright jade green eyes would begin to narrow, darkened ears climbing forwards with dominance. If she were still an Alpha were were her band of mercenaries now? Where was her land?

As he suspected she was of Tartok blood, but that was not enough for Altair desiring to know more. "Where is Tartok now?" He had not come across it yet since his return to the park, or was he looking at it? The only part of the pack that still remained - Tonravik.

Tonravik was unperturbed by his display. Her own head was held loftily above his own, her tail rigid behind her. It moved in a loose arch, and the almond eyed woman observed as his eyes narrowed as though bothered by something. What that was, she could not know. She also had no desire to. Tonravik took his question wrong, responding simply with, Many places. And this was true; Tartok and its branches and battalions were most everywhere by now, the band of conquerors a dominant bunch that were making their name for themselves even still. Tartok was a good name, a strong name; it was no wonder he had heard of it.

His curiosity did interest her, naturally. ...you do not run with us, she deduces of him and Tartok, her voice a low rumble. Tonravik did not think his intrigue meant he surely wished to join them, but if he knew anything of she and hers, their strength and how they would surely grow, then he would perhaps come to desire to. Tonravik was no brilliant recruiter. She had the stuff of a leader, strong and sure, confident; she was equally cold and indifferent. Tonravik only had desire for strong wolves, and her eyes looked to him to measure him.