Porcupine Ridge ishkitu-niqaru

The sun has settled beyond the horizon line by now, but there is a golden hue hesitating over the landscape all the same. The ridge that Khalid climbs now is narrow, boasting sparse vegetation and a proliferation of uneven stonework. He moves with as much practiced stealth as he can along the edge of the ridge, able to align himself adequately enough despite his height.

Under his breath he whispers, "Naxaru, naxa..."

When he stops, he crouches low. The wind rustles through the bushes, and the distant call of a bird he does not recognize echoes softly. In the distance, a faint movement catches his eye and as something steps in to view, Khalid's attention snaps to it, and he holds himself there, readying to give chase if it is something he might catch, butcher, and eat.

The wind picks up slightly as he's coiling himself together, and rather than jolt towards the shape, he begins to stalk.

Hex was prowling along one of the many ledges cutting through the territory when the shadow caught his eye. Not so deep into the territory, but enough to cause concern—especially when the man lowered himself into a hunting position.

The yearling altered course and marched down the path with a sharp b a r k, fur well fluffed out by the time he reached the stranger.

You're trespassing, he snarled. He might have been a little more gracious were it not for recent events; the mad woman nearby was still at the forefront of his mind, and now they had Nutu to protect. Tell me your business here or get out.

The man was older, but not too much larger or more brawny. Hex was fairly confident he could drive him away without calling for backup.

The sun dips lower, shadows lengthening as Khalid watches. The rock beneath his feet is loose, and he navigates it with deliberate, measured steps. The breath of the wind carries the scent of the earth, cool and tinged with pine. He knows the scent of prey is close; he can almost feel the tension in the air. A flicker of movement catches his eye again, this time as a shape moves close.

A sleek, dark wolf stands as a shadow against the rocky landscape. That glimmer of dying sunlight makes the stranger's tall ears look more like horns. The wolf's eyes lock on to Khalid — bright, alert, and unyielding. Its stance is tense, its posture communicating caution and defiance. Khalid plants his feet more firmly in the dirt.

Moments pass. The stranger speaks. Khalid can understand the protective posturing a lot better than what has been spoken. He slowly stands to his full height while his tail remains low, and steps back to give the stranger space. Signs of deference and caution play out across Khalid's body as he moves, not wanting a fight to result from this.

Khalid clears his throat and speaks, presuming this stranger will not understand — so he is careful with his pronunciation and deliberate with his word choice, as if speaking to a child: Serla nu’fel? Tahar mekar fa’he?

Gibberish. Hex was more or less patient with those who spoke a different tongue; perhaps they could come to an understanding in some way. But that patience wore thin when it came to someone trespassing on his land without permission or request.

I don't know a single word you just said, he went on through slightly gritted teeth, and if you don't tell me—in my words—why you're here, I'm gonna have to kick your ass out.

His tail was beginning to lash behind him in tall, dark arcs, and a call to his warriors was burning at the base of his throat, ready to be released. 

Though he had to admit, the man was showing the telltale signs of respect. Hex jerked his chin in gesture behind him. You want to stay here? he asked, drawing out each word for better comprehension. Stay. . .here?