Silvertip Mountain wolf mother.

She was still uncertain of what she would do, but as the days passed, it was becoming clearer and clearer. The more she attempted to repress her natural behaviors, the more they came out. And now, she had two companions to look after, her subordinates. Skyfall the young yet strong, and Hunter the shy yet fierce. Already she knew there would be more. Tartok aided one another. And she knew with her mothers hearing of her intentions, that she herself would be the one to make sure others would come to her. Her only daughter. A blessing granted. The pressure would have been too heavy for some, but Tonravik was Tartok. A pack that would always prevail.

Sisamat was growing used to the sun. She was shedding some, now that it was not winter always. She came out in evenings more, but still was around more at night. Now the sun came down, and Tonravik lingered within a slow-moving stream to keep cool. When she had enough, she moved toward a particularly hard trail Silvertip offered to train as she always had. There would be no becoming soft here, despite the softer sort she imagined might be around. She had neglected to meet the locals. Soon.

Without his mother, he did not know what to do.

Where to go.

Who to be.

And so Tonraq walked, as he had done always in his youth—before, always by his mother's side—for it was all he knew. He ate when his stomach hungered, powerful legs giving chase to the smaller mammals he could take down on his own. He slept when he could walk no further, when his muscles could take no more. When dangerous, treacherous thoughts crept into his head, Tonraq ran until his head was empty of everything but instinct once again.

It had been a week, though he paid little mind to the time that had passed.

He saw mountains. That, that was familiar. And though he did not know what would come to pass when he arrived, Tonraq made them the destination of his course. The range of them intrigued him, for they could contain generations upon generations of Tartok: but when he came across a solitary peak, instinct called to him.

At its base, he paused.

The air seemed to be unnaturally still, and she does not move until the wind wafts toward her. But the scent of wolf entices her, and she knows that if she desired this place to be her own, she would have to warn them. Not too close. She had been near enough to the base to arrive to him in quick time, but she was given pause as she looked to him. His familiarity was quite striking to the sole daughter of Siku, and her murky brown eyes assessed him.

But it was so very hard not to know.

We can, she murmurs to him, waiting for him to echo the known words—we will. For they were Tartok, were they not? Or had she made an error? It was all very possible, but she took another hungry step forward. Tonravik wondered if he was sent from mother. She could not know that the fresh yearling had faced the same fate as she and her siblings had; chased off, as soon as they reached their first year. Why, the very day.

His instinct was rewarded, for in mere heartbeats a female presented herself with clear body language. Mine. Tonraq's body moved in answer, melting smoothly into a nonthreatening posture. Still, he looked over with curiosity, careful to never meet her gaze. He did not want a challenge. He did not want a fight. At least—he didn't think he did. Not yet. Tonraq knew he wasn't ready.

Looking at her was like looking into a pool of water: his own face seemed to look back at him. Pitch fur, brown eyes. He supposed plenty of wolves appeared thus, but it was unnerving to be faced with someone so identical and yet radically different. Both perfect mixtures of Siku and Kilgarrah, but in different ways. Still. Many wolves looked the same; it did not mean they were of the same blood.

"We can," came the murmur.

Tonraq stiffened, the surprise causing the yearling to meet her gaze.

They were of the same blood. Tartok.

As the female took a step forward, eager, his low voice sounded with a rumble like thunder.

"We will."