She had heard him among the others, a sound she did not know, did not recognize. Tonravik moved out swiftly to find the strange among the familiar, her dark eyes darting left and right. He had been nearby, but not upon the territory—yet—and so he was safe from her wrath thus far. It was clear, as he had sung with them, that he was interested in becoming a part of their ranks. She was eager to find him, to see if he was worthy of the name and their ways.

The Alpha was not too close to her home, and she howls again, this time for the stranger that had called. Where are you, the cry rings; and she pauses, ears perked forward, to wait for a howling response.

The responding call was heard, and she did not pause; she only changed her initial trajectory and moved all the faster to meet the other. Soon, they were in plain sight; Tonravik moved with more confidence, instilled in her by her newly fulfilled role and the establishment of her pack, the strongest that there would be. Her long-legged strut could only be described as a dominant swagger, tail lifted rigidly above her rear as she waited for the appropriate response before even addressing him.

He was a male that was predominantly dark, but held hues of cinnamon and scarlet. It was an interesting mix. His eyes were bright and similar to his coloration slightly, but contrasted enough for her to note them in particular. He was not so impressive as she in stature, but it was clear he had muscle to him, and that was something she valued. She wondered if he was good for the chase or preferred close-combat, but these were idle thoughts that tinkered away as she observed him, coming now to a stop before him.

His words were met with silence. Tonravik misinterpreted his question to be a rhetorical one, and so she does not agree or disagree. Perhaps it was clear to him regardless. He continues to talk, leaving little room for her to respond as he goes on. Tekovaca. An interesting name. Of what origin it was, she could not be sure. You do not know me... he goes on, finishing with a flourish: a pity. Tonravik withheld a snort. Was he so sure that it was a pity? It was clear he held confidence in himself. Still, he was not one to cut to the chase.

She already knew he desired to join. That had been clear when he had sang with them, who would be the most powerful pack to come to fruition within these lands. And so she gave him a pointed stare that spoke more than words could: what can you offer.

He spoke, unruffled by her expected response. That was good. To see him sulk would have caused her to turn and leave him. Perhaps her character had been spoken of. Words were useless. And as he speaks, she remains impassive. When he quiets at last, Tonravik blinks, thinking. That he was not skilled in combat could easily change. Tartok could make a warrior out of a sheep if they so desired to. But they did not take pity on the weak, and so would never offer them shelter. She could see this male had potential, physically. And if he was as smart as he decreed, then she could only hope he would learn fast when it came to fighting. Tartok harbored soldiers, not silver-tongued advisers.

As he makes eye contact, Tonravik audibly snarls, revealing to him her fangs. Some wolves needed to be brought back to their base ways; perhaps she should physically shake him to what he inherently was, a simple wolf. Just as she. Tonravik takes an aggressive step forward, lobes thrusting over her brow, her dominant stance becoming all the more exaggerated. Advise me, she speaks at last, words calm and cool even with their bite, bristling. She tests him, wondering if he was as smart as he said he was, if he was smart enough to admit a wrong. Or was he too proud? Tonravik had no room for that sort; they were nothing but trouble, and often died due to their headstrong ways. It would be a waste of food that her pack shared and hunted, and it would be better to know now how he handled these matters.