there is a twisting scowl of distinctive disgust upon the wolfdog's muzzle as he moves through the cold, damp mire, the ice cold mud squelching unattractively beneath his paws as he trudges begrudgingly through it. he's got no other choice, really, without backtracking and that's only slightly more unappealing than the mud — but it's a very close and thin line, mind. it was going to take at least three baths to get all the mud out of his fur and he's covered in it from his underside down to and between his toes. he makes an effort not to think about it as he sees a large boulder up ahead and wrestles his way out of the mud to climb it. his lip curls as he glimpses down, the sun peeking out of the clouds that have been drifting over it on and off all morning to reveal just how filthy he'd really became during his godawful trek through the mire. as a beast of prestige and vanity he heaves a heavy sigh as he sinks into a sphinx-like position on the boulder and claims it as his temporary perch. it's physically tiring walking through all that muck and mud and he figures an hour or two of rest would likely be enough to see him through the tail end of the mire where he intends to never return to once he's free of it.

taarlok resists the urge to groom himself. it will do no good aside from smearing the wet mud all over and getting it in his mouth. it itches as it dries and under his breath the wolfdog curses his bought of undesirable luck and own unwillingness to backtrack. it's not as if he doesn't have the time — he did and still does — but it's so much extra effort and he's already suffered his mud bath for majority of the territory. he's on the final stretch now, he thinks. he is no navigator though and these lands are yet still foreign to him; as disgruntled as he may be about being filthy it's what kept him rooted to his chosen path initially. he nibbles at a paw pad abruptly unable to resist the urge to soothe a sudden and intense itch, spitting out bits of drying mud between nibbles. taarlok's ears swivel forward to attention atop his skull at the sound of footfalls, swift and thus quieter than taarlok's own. his head lifts as his paw presses back against the sun-touched rock and his weight shifts it ever-so-slightly, positioning himself so that he could stand fluidly and fight or flight if need be. there was no telling how the wolves of these wilds would take to wolfdogs. the imperium had thought him impure and only tolerated him breathing because of who his father was. outside of the imperium it occurs to taarlok that he is outside his father's realm of protection and thus wholly on his own. that's fine, he assures himself. he's been dealing with discrimination his entire life.

the owner of the swift steps comes in taarlok's view, and his pupils narrow in their pools of light silver as he takes in the limber, svelte and dark pelted man from afar with a critiquing eye that subtly appreciates even as his assess. taarlok's always been appreciative of the body and how he believes them to be works of art. yet, he is shallow and he studies those that are particularly intriguing or strikingly attractive as if he is a master painter admiring the work of his colleges. there is too much distance between them to yet determine if the stranger's attractive but he's lissome and it's catching to the imperial's eye. taarlok contemplates for a few seconds, assuming that he goes unnoticed from his perch, whether to call out to the stranger or not but in the end let's out a chuff to announce his presence to the other man. it's courteous if nothing else and while taarlok's never fancied playing by rules he does value his life enough to not want to be attacked because he took someone off guard.

upon closer inspection as the stranger draws nearer and taarlok takes in the bristled fur along the other's spine there are accents of rust that makes him jealous. he'd never admit it aloud, of course. his coat patterning and coloration is malinois which is unsurprising as he takes after his mother in such regards. the thick coat, wolfish build and his eyes are all he took from his father. still, taarlok's jealousy is easily soothed by the fact that the stranger is very pleasing to look at. his greedy, magpie eye is naturally drawn to pretty things. taarlok lounges on his rock as if he is a king upon his throne. it is a pretense, a façade and while he's certainly pretentious enough for it he's always been a mutt and will always be thought lesser of for it ( at least, he assumes, by pure blooded wolves ). that doesn't mean he can't implore the fake it 'til you make it tactic. it's worked fairly well so far, noble bearing as arishok's son withstanding.

the stranger is the first to speak, his tone quiet and very pleasant. it takes all of taarlok's effort to avoid the sigh that threatens to escape him. he's always had a weakness for nice voices. those kinds of voices that you just wanted to hear even if you couldn't understand the words that were uttered in it. "hello," the imperial returns the greeting, mercurial gaze appraising him again, subtly, noting details he hadn't noticed the first or even second time. taarlok isn't sure whether it's his sharpened features or his dark pelage but the stranger's smoldering bronze eyes stand out in stark contrast and leaves taarlok with the distinct feeling of his skin being on fire. it isn't, of course, but he suddenly feels not nevertheless.

taarlok makes a softly contemplative and noncommittal noise in his throat and speaks casually, attempting to weave the illusion that the thought just occured to him as opposed to letting on that it's consumed him for the past how many ever seconds — or was it minutes? — that had passed since he truly took notice, "your eyes could start wildfires, you know." spoken to undoubtedly be a compliment. there was another at the tip of his tongue: how, like helen of troy, the stranger had a face that a man would start a war for but resists due to his uncertainty of how it might go over. taarlok didn't particularly wish to scare the other male off, after all.