Her mountain offered the grandest of vantage points. From below she could see herds congregate, wolves unite to hunt, and potential trespassers. She saw some come, some go. Rarely did she go to meet them.

She could not see as far as the Lake, but she departed her home with word to her subordinates so that she could scout the land out for wolves that held potential. While Tartok was being established, she could do this; otherwise, she would not go far from her home at all. Why would she need to? They truly did not need more. Even with few numbers, Tartok would dominate, destroy; they knew how to take on multiple wolves at once, were trained to anticipate such a thing. And perhaps that would happen, given their current choice of camp and their forever-home. A mountain. Always a mountain.

Tonravik had fed well prior to leaving, so she was in good spirits and health alike as she departed her home. It took a while for her to come to this place, but when she arrived, she did so in time for a show. It was the way the beast consumed that intrigued her. The display was one that she enjoyed. Not a wasteful being. Shamelessly, she moves nearer, her eyes upon him, eating him up as he would his prey.

His query, asked so perfectly with the tilt of his head, the glint in his eye, was met with a heavy snort. It had been a while since she had fished in these types of waters, but surely not too long—the compact woman drifts forward, keeping her distance, and does not hang over the water so as to alert the fish of her presence. For minutes, she simply stares. Her eyes are concentrated, but it is clear she is in the present moment, ears perked and trained to hear movement from him.

She is a statue, and it does not look like she can be moved; her stillness is challenged only by the rocks around them, and even they shift as the water pressures it. When it seems as though she might never move, she lurches forward, snapping her jaws in the water and blowing roughly through her nose.

And when she turns, she is victorious but not smiling. Can I fish. Her mother had trained her to fish in every source of water. Had sent her off to find an ocean to perfect the craft. When one was unchallenged by waves, fishing seemed quite simple. But it never really was. She drifts to the side, places it down, and begins to rip at the fish slowly. It is not her favorite meal, but it sates her appetite; that is enough.

She eats even while she watches him. Tonravik is impressed that he has learned so swiftly, and furthermore that he was able to act upon it. As a cub, she had made many errors. The reprimands given had been more than enough inspiration to not make those errors again, lest risk humiliation and bruises alike. She preferred neither, and so the perfectionist perfected her crafts.

As he approaches, she lifts her head and gives him a stony look. No. She did not appreciate the other coming nearer, not without her true consent. He regards her and Tonravik does not remove her eyes from him. She did not care to know what he thought; she only cared that he remained obedient to her whim that he keep his distance.

But then the stranger speaks. She does not note the inkling he has to her identity, but her ears swivel atop her head as she licks her chops in displeasure. And so Tonravik blinks, waiting for him to draw the conclusion he would. He had begun a sentence before he finished with a question. Could he know? She reflects, idly, and then observes again, waiting for him to say what he truly must be thinking, hoping that he might.

She listens to his story, interested from the get-go. One of Siku's. Order did not matter; nor did it matter that she was the first-born of the Matriarch of Tartok. Siku did not boast her cubs. She raised them alongside Tartok, she taught them (and taught them exceptionally well), and then she chased them off into the proverbial sunset when they were of the right age. Even through their achievements, none could truly know who Siku's true-born cubs were. All of the wolves of Tartok were her sons, her daughters, her sisters, her brothers; and when they did prove their worth, they were given this chance. Tonravik did not have her position because she was her mothers daughter. She had it because she fought for it, tooth and claw; she had it because she was a woman who was as meant for leadership as her mother. She aspired to be as great as her, and although she had not led a pack at the age of one as her mother had when she had chased off her younger sister, Tonravik had learned what it was to be a leader. Not even her mother had been given that.

So, perhaps she was destined for more.

Tonravik looks at his scar, taking a step nearer. She cannot help herself; the allure of a battlewound outweighed her desire to steer clear of him. At his words, her brown eyes lift. He had lost a fight to mate with her mother, and to become her mate. Siku did, in fact, mate for life; she imagined she would still be with her father had he not passed, because the man had been her mate for a reason. Much like the dark wolf who was beside her mother now, evidently; the dual-eyed stranger had lost. Tonravik imagined he was more than capable in battle. But there was a reason her mothers mate was her mate; she had chosen well, she supposed.

At his next set of words, Tonravik did not so much as smile.

But ah, as she hears him finish, that Tartok was all he could be, Tonravik takes another step forward. I am Tonravik. She did not acknowledge that he had been correct; she did not use her mothers name as a ladder to climb with. She was her own woman, and a woman with plenty of merit. Prove to me that you are Tartok. she demands, in whatever way you will. She prepares, physically and mentally; but perhaps he would speak, find another way. In heart, in soul.

She could feel the contact. It was minimal, but that would prevent her own bruising. His momentum enabled him to move away; she had been thoughtless, allowing his escape in the heat of the moment instead of acting the tactician as she ought to have. Still, as he moved past, her closing fangs did briefly brush and scrape the furs of his loin. That was minor. There was no grip, no anything; and as she turned to keep his rear-end in sight, he moved for her again. As his fangs sought purchase on her croup, his fangs instead landed upon her point of rump due to her shifting. His grip was a superficial one at best, but she did not think that way, disappointed that he had landed a hit at all.

She has been curling her spine, and so they are in a near-perfect circle as she attempts to get her own rear away from him as she moves to attempt to crash into his rear to knock him off balance whilst simultaneously swiping at a leg at his (left) hock and attempting to keep her own rump away from the vicinity of his snapping fangs, hoping to gain the advantage by way of attacking from behind. From the front, he seemed able enough to handle her. He had been taught well. She had no doubt that he was truly Tartok, but the test continued.