All this rain, all these branches… the wood’s seen better days, hasn’t it? It’s a shame, really; the undergrowth must be drowning and those berries are awfully tempting. Part of Dakota wants to stop and feast, but if someone’s claimed these forests? Not that it’s never stopped him from hunting, since he can always say he chased prey over the border without noticing. There’s something different about plopping down to gorge in what might be pack lands. Negligence, that’s it.

So instead, Dakota makes a mental note of the potential loot and sets out towards the forest’s southern edge. Wouldn’t hurt to ask the locals. As he scans the landscape—lo and behold, a white-furred wolf. With a friendly whuff Dakota announces his presence. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” He’ll gauge the wolf’s response before pressing further. It helps if they’re on the same page.

“No.” Not the most enthusiastic response in the world; is Dakota seeing things or is the wolf sizing him up? Ha, that’s nothing new! He stands steady, unphased. He’s blissfully unaware he’s been pegged as ugly; there’s a certain sense of pride Dakota gains from interactions like this. Surely he’ll make a good impression, both for himself and other wolfdogs who pass through. In fact, he’s about to explain his heritage when the wolf continues with a question.

This tells Dakota two things: first, between this and the lack of overt hostility, this territory isn’t claimed. Free pickings. And second, from “around here,” he shouldn’t expect adjacent lands to be so liberating. It’s a game to him, this weaving between invisible lines; he welcomes the challenge.

In response, Dakota shakes his head, smile unwavering. It’ll do him good to learn more before moving on. “Can’t say I am, stranger. Yourself?”

Legion. It’s a military word, soldiers marching in line ‘round the sturdy peaks they call home. The rigid, decisive beats of Kaertok’s name pose an almost jarring contrast; it echoes a language Dakota was too busy running to learn. If the thought of an army doesn’t intrigue him, Kaertok Tartok’s northern sound does.

The peculiar familial phrasing barely registers in light of subsequent talk. Is this a recruitment offer? That’s new. Kaertok’s staring must have drawn favorable conclusions indeed. Convention asks Dakota to offer respect to the beta; a swell of pride keeps his head lifted. “My name’s Dakota Tikaani,” he begins, “born and raised in the wilds of Alaska.” Might it ring a bell?

Much as the idea of being tied to a pack’s campgrounds doesn’t appeal to the roaming wolfdog, he can’t help but entertain the offer. “I’m at home on the trail, friend”—a show of camaraderie, if nothing else—“but I’m happy to offer some traveling eyes. Not nose, though,” he adds, for honesty’s sake. A light huff and a smile indicate this is hardly a sore subject. “I’ve learned to compensate.”

The musing on names goes unaddressed, if noticed at all. Ah well. Instead the topic veers around the bend towards Dakota’s nose, and he can’t help but chuckle. If he’s still being sized up, points to Kaertok for being direct about this particular concern.

“I can’t smell,” Dakota says with a nonchalant shrug. It’s as easy an admission as his sordid past: “Had that well and beat out of me as a pup.” He’s been through worse since.

Somehow he doubts Kaertok will offer the usual condolences, but Dakota aims to spare them both the awkwardness with an advance deflection: “I’m part dog, in case you were wondering. Father was a wolf like yourself.” He has no clue what his father looks like, actually. The mix applies regardless. “I like to think I’ve inherited the best of both bloodlines.” If he had a tail, it’d be wagging; he knows how arrogant the comment sounds. All in good fun, though, yeah?