Tucked between the mountain peaks was a deep-seated valley, dotted with trees and water. It was midday, but the sunlight only hit it in thin steams, spindle-like spots of brightness that slipped in between the rockfaces that surrounded the Valley. It was cooler in this area than it was anywhere else, and for the thick-coated Endore, it was a welcome reprieve from the otherwise unbearable summer weather. He let out a deep sigh as the cooler temperature pervaded his fur and settled into his bones, moving slowly through the foliage.

It was a nice area, even if it had a slightly isolated feel — the mountains that rose up on every side of him made him feel as though he'd stepped into a different world entirely, although he quite liked it. As he continued on, he thought that he might call this his home, at least until he found a better offer; there were wolves all around, and although he'd been somewhat reticent in seeking them out (because he was somewhat reticent in nearly anything) he did have it in his mind to eventually join a pack. For now, though, Whim decided to settle in this cool, deep extra world tucked between the folds of the mountain range.

Whim wasn't walking long when he spotted the other wolf, not far off. It was dark in the vale due to the cover of the surrounding peaks but the wolf before him was darker still, a small ink splotch on the landscape, picking through trees as he was. He imagined her view was quite opposite — Whim himself would be an unignorable bright spot. Such was the problem in being of a family who'd made the long trek from the North. The Endores hadn't been in a more arctic clime in ages, at least not his direct relatives, and so it wasn't until winter that Whim would really be at home in the landscape.

As he continued toward the other, he realised that she wasn't a small ink splotch at all. She was rather large, in fact, his size, even. He thought that it was perhaps rude not to call out a greeting, but he was awkward enough with face-on introductions, and so swallowed down any impulse to call out — he'd only muck it up, anyway. He also thought it might be smart to change course in case she thought his continuing in her general direction was meant to be threatening (and to avoid that he checked his posture a bit, forcing himself to look relaxed and neutral) but decided against it, in case she was with a pack or in some way dangerous and saw his veering as a retreat.

When she was near enough that he could make out her individual features — strong, sturdy, stern — she stopped, and he took a few more steps until they were in an appropriate range for conversation. When she didn't speak, however, he felt the creep of ill-ease tremble at the base of his spine and climb up. Inwardly uneasy, Whim stood in silence, but after a moment of it, he relaxed. He was rubbish at speaking, and here he was given a reprieve. He stood up a bit straighter and regarded her straight-on, tilting his head slightly to the side, though he didn't bother to ask who she was or what she wanted.

It was a strange interaction, that was for sure, but strangely settling to the wolf who could seldom bring himself to string together a coherent sentence. She stepped closer to him and he instinctively lifted his head a bit, shedding his neutral posture for a more dominant stance, not so much out of a desire to dominate, but to show that he would, should she do anything untoward. Instead, she seemed interested in investigating him — and odd though it all was, he found it immeasurably preferable to really painful small talk. His tail gave a little flicker and he canted his head further toward her, his eyes on her, but he issued no warning.

As she seemed to examine him, he stood calmly on. She didn't seem to be a threat, nor did she seem particularly malignant. Merely curious, and perhaps unusual, but then he came from a family that spun words from the air like it was the simplest of acts and he could hardly carry on a conversation without feeling a fool. As she drifted away from him, he reached out to graze her passing side with his muzzle, in affirmation or mutual greeting. She stopped before him, and he took stock of her — she was dark all over, all of her fur and her eyes, and her features were as serious and closed-off as her demeanor. He followed her eyes as they darted around him and then back to his face, as though asking a question, and he responded with the only thing he could think of to fit the shape of the silence she'd left. "I'm alone."