Marking was a task that Tonravik took to with gusto. She traveled miles within a day, and she was not the only one. The broad-chested bear of a wolf rubbed the entirety of her body on rock, grass, and dirt; and when she caught scent of a wolf nearby, she did not bother to shake her furs to rid herself of her homes debris. This mountain was the mountain of Tartok. No other could traverse it without becoming. The other being near it set Tonravik on edge, but she was aware that although strong, her mark was new. None would know yet that this land was claimed. So her posture was not aggressive despite its dominance. She would be the informant, and through word of mouth, others would learn that this land was not free to travel any longer.

She caught sight of the agouti male, standing atop a hill. She lingered upon her ledge for a moment before the Tartok descended to meet him fully. His proximity to the borders was not close enough for even discomfort; he kept near to the meadow, for one reason or another. Perhaps the markers were stronger than she thought.

Her tail was stiff behind her as she moved toward him, noting from afar a searching gaze. She paused, suddenly, ears erect and eyes upon him, stiff as she waited for him to come, or to go. Her attentions were very clearly upon him; she did not disguise her interest.

Tonravik bristled as his tail lifted, lips lifting to reveal a row of fangs that would make good on any threat. But swiftly, the other changed his demeanor, and so she visibly relaxed herself. Her own tail remained high, perked ears twitching slightly in case he would speak. Many found words necessary. She rarely catered to them by truly listening, but this wolf appeared to have intent in being here. Perhaps it was to join them. Perhaps not. His nonverbal way, in that time, pleased her immensely. His lack of barking questions allowed her to believe he was smarter than she had initially anticipated. As his plume swayed left and right, she understood well enough what he desired. She was still for another moment longer before she nods. Come.

She shifts her own body so that she is facing him, head on; initially, her side had been exposed so he could note the length of her, but now he could see her bearish girth. How very much like her mother she was! Her brothers were smaller than her, only just, bearing her fathers height. That she was as tall as Siku meant that she was not so very stocky, but she was still boxy and broad. Everything measured out in the end so that she appeared to be proportionate. He is large, too, a handsome wolf by appearance. But Tonravik was only attracted to wolves who had won wars, and who she had seen fight and kill and ravage the enemy. She thought of the agouti stranger in that element, and imagined he may do well there—but so many wolves here were soft. Could not go through with the execution of another as means to an end. Peaceful, docile. Not even kind—it was cruel to allow fools to live, they would only die at the fangs of another!—or wise in their allowing others to continue living past their crimes committed.

His eyes were diverted even while her imploring gaze remained steadily upon him. He did not waste her time. Good. This was a wolf Tonravik could appreciate. There were so very few of those! He did not waste his breath, either, only saying what he felt was necessary for her to hear. He left few things to be desired, but he was vague. Still, that could be considered appropriate; she, too, could be vague.

She wondered who it was. Tuwawi? Aguta? For those were the two women within her ranks. She could not think back to the seconds where he seemed to recognize her—that would have been answer enough, for Aguta was as dark as she—even though she was keen to minute details. So instead, Tonravik could offer him his way to hunt with her, the mystery woman he spoke of. She would have to speak with whoever it was on being more discreet in their return home; Tonravik was typically not interested in many knowing of she and hers location. Let them smell the borders, and then let them depart. Tartok was a pack that clung to its secrets and its aptitude at discretion. Still, Aguta also did not know that she had returned. There was little fault in that.

We hunt with our family, she speaks at last, And our family is our pack. They could not waste their meat upon a wolf who had no intent to join them, surely he could understand that? Outsiders were never welcome. Still, there was a chance he could be welcomed into the fold, should he so desire it. She was poignant in her choice of words, and she looked to him, audits twitching and nostrils flaring. Who do you run with?

Tonravik did not know where it was that he had come from, did not know that previously he had run with other wolves. The scent upon his furs did not tell her that he had wandered with anyone. They were so scant that it was hard to tell that he had been in a pack at all; but his good health were signs enough that recently, he had taken to traveling. It was no surprise. Often, males drifted to forge their own beginnings. Still, leaving here would not be so easy.

By doing so, you would—if worthy—become initiated into our family. Take the name and the oath. Her words were dark. Tonravik and her pack did not harbor the weak or the weary. They drew first blood. They took what was rightfully theirs, as they were the strong and ensured that the fittest survived. All that they did was for their own survival. Sometimes, others found themselves in the way. That was no fault of hers. No fault of Tartok. Life was cruel. Fate, equally so.

But perhaps not to the man before her.

What skills do you have? What could you bring me? What would you be willing to do for the path? The world was so very black and white. Tartok was by no means a darkly aligned or evil pack. They did what was necessary. And her subordinates were obedient to her, and the only voice that could speak above her own was her mother. The Matriarch of Tartok, as Tartok was her fruit. She would explain this all to him, of course, prior to anything at all. He would not be oblivious. None of them were.

The truth of it was was that Tartok was very much its own vessel. Left to its own devices, its requirements were that the wolves that carried the name practice and hone their skills of battle and maintain their physical shape so that it would be the best it could be. Siku was a wolf who was real and who was true, and who had given many a purpose. Tonravik was one of that number. She could not see survival wrong when her instincts demanded it of her and any other. The will to live prevailed. As wolves, that will was constantly challenged. Battles for territory, for game, for leftovers and scraps. Battles for mates, for rank, for procreation. Everything was a fight that one would prevail in. Those that bore the name Tartok were certainly not on the short end of the stick. They did more than merely survive. They lived, and lived well.

As he supplied her with his skills, she listened. She was pleased he did not merely leave it at hunting and tracking. She had her own nose and, including herself, four hunters that were more than adept. Not only that, but each of her wolves were brilliant fighters, trained well by their many months in Tartok. But that he was a strategist was good, and that he could navigate and guard mountains was good as well. Tonravik sought strength more than she did numbers. The agouti wolf before her seemed to have it, but he would be tested.

She would not yet reveal herself to him, or her packs name. Its ways, though, she could vaguely feed him. We do not tolerate the weak. Trespassers are rewarded with death, regardless of who they are. Our mountain is our mountain alone, we do not give tours and allow none safe passage or rest. Those that leave without word or given mission are hunted. Those that betray will find themselves without a tongue to speak against us again. Her dark eyes flashed. Tartok's laws were common sense that most other packs refused to follow. And if you are foolish enough to trespass into another packs territory, you are utterly at their mercy. There is no redemption for stupidity. Even Tartok wolves could be meant for death. Some that were believed bright could be truly arrogant. Tartok could not remove all of the weak, after all. But, of course, that pack would be sought quietly, hungrily, as they waited for it to make an error. Family was family. An eye was always taken for an eye.

She nods at his words. And his next question was responded to briefly: You are merely Goldry. Your surname, gone, to prepare you in truly becoming a part of this family. You will learn of the rest, in time. Her eyes flash as she gestures beside her. Come. I know who you hunted with, she rolls her shoulders and waits for him to move beside her before she—alongside him—would seek Aguta. Many had abandoned their last names, believing in the power of their sacred blood; but Tonravik found no merit in that, only in action. Tartok became. And when one became Tartok, it was earned. An honor.