Blanc wonders if the forest feels. She wonders if it feels the softness of her furs as she moves beneath particularly low boughs, the toughness of her spine, the fortitude of her body. Blanc also wonder if the forest knows; if it hears. It is silent, now; she can hear her footfalls, hear the breath that clouded around her face. Her heartbeat, too, she can hear; but the forest is nothing. No rustling breeze to move it, to force it to speak or sing. The french woman feels as though if it could do one thing, it could see. She felt as though the tall trees were watching now, her passage safe and clear. But if it could see, it would also have seen the demise of many an animal, prey and her kind alike.

They were made for the kill. But everything must die. Even wolves.

The scent of another is carried on the wind. She is not sure what it is yet; it could be prey, or perhaps wolf. She is too far to know. And so the white wolf moves toward the strange scent, strides long, head high. Blanc was swift, and would find the source of this scent soon enough. As she moved closer, she would be able to identify it so long as the other did not move downwind so she was not so oblivious as to what she would run into. For now, she had the shelter, the protection, of the trees; neither of them could see the other, but in time, Blanc would break free of the protective hideaway, and although due to her white furs and the snowy ground she would be seen.

In time, the trees began to become slightly more scarce, intermittently dotting the land. Conifers changed to trees that hardly covered the land. These branches were darker, ominous; something from a horror movie, the very trees that convinced an unwise traveler that they had eyes. The air was thin, and looking to the skyline she could predict snow; the windchill was nonexistent fortunately, because there was hardly any wind at all. But when there was, the trees groaned, bark pressing against rough bark, dragging, miserable and shivering in their nakedness. Blanc eyed them without suspicion; she had been taught of Atka, of Sos, from her father, but she actively decided to not follow the faith. Her mother did not believe in spirits (though her mother admitted she would like to, if only to believe that her father—and Blanc's grandfather—lived even still). The only spirit there was was the spirit that you possessed; and when you were gone, that spirit, too, was gone. And so there was no fear in her step as she looked to the trees, her eyes hard and sharp. She was looking for something real.

As she weaved through the variety of trees, the smell became stronger. Blanc put no effort in disguising her approach or her search. Why bother? She only paused when she caught sight of a wolf that was still, and sniffed the air quickly to assess if there was any danger to be found here. The Tartok yearling could only smell the other, and when the other moved, Blanc dashed in her direction.

The pale wolf was unlike her relatives in her intent. Her highly esteemed grandmother and her aunts and uncles surely would have sought to avoid this figure. Blanc was socialized by family different than only Tartok; her environment was hard, but she was also given something the rest of her cousins never had. Blanc was surely her old mothers last litter, given her age, but Bluet cherished and loved them all the same. Death was mourned, even though her father disagreed and made it known. Life was cherished. Weak could be saved if given the chance. Her father shook his head. The weak die. The strong survive. Thrive. Her mother echoed his voice gently, You were given your mind to make your own choices. It was true that Tartok and its way were ingrained within her. She looked down on the weak. But could it be her who decided their fate? Could she do that? She did not know.

Time would tell.

Hey, Blanc greeted from afar, only now ceasing to move.

Blanc observed the other. The wolf was more handsome than she was pretty, but truth be told, Blanc preferred that in any specimen. Strength was preferred to dainty femininity; Blanc was a fifty fifty mix. Surely not dainty, but undoubtedly a woman. The quiet confidence the other possessed was swiftly mirrored in the lifting of her own head, the flaring of her nostrils. Dignity was something the Tartok woman had plenty of, the trait instilled in her at an early age. Her family history—maternal and paternal—was something to be proud of. And she worked for a high place. And now, independence. A new life.

It was something to be proud of. The other seemed to sense something, and was immediately complacent in submission. Some lone wolves for a reason unknown to Blanc preferred that solitary life, the life that could only lead to death inevitably. Particularly now with the weather only growing colder. Blanc could not understand what the other said, though perhaps it too was a greeting in kind. But she had never needed language. Tartok never needed verbalization. And so Blanc took the initiative. Her strides were long and decisive as she neared Galena with confidence, her tail swaying to display her amicability. For now, Blanc was not aggressive, only curious, and it showed in the slight tilt of her head, the swiveling of her ear. Unlike her, Galena smelt of nowhere. Perhaps her language might have been a crippling blow elsewhere, but Blanc knew words were nothing in the scheme of things.

The Tartok yearling paused when she was close to Galena, then took a step forward. May I? She seemed to ask, wanting to investigate the other further.