messages

Steph you should plz tell me if Ton1 has any messages for Ton2 from Siku or other Tartok garrisons, k? :d

He had been sent away for a time; to spread the news of Tartok's newest stronghold. Tonraq would have rather stayed—his paws were well-traveled for one so young, even before making these latest strings of message-carrying—but he was nothing if not obedient, dutiful. Some might say he was weak-willed. He was not. He merely knew his place in the world, and accepted it. There was no use in challenging orders out of misplaced pride or inflated sense of entitlement.

But make no mistake; if he were ever challenged by a wolf lesser than he, there would be blood.

It would not be his.

As he travelled and the leaves began to change and then fall, rumors began to spread of a great famine. It did not bode well. His mission finished, and with the need to return to settlement before the winter struck hard and fast, Tonraq had begun the journey home. His lean, muscled form was used to functioning for long distances on small game alone; he did not suffer greatly from the thinning herds, which he would not be able to hunt on his own anyway. Even so, he did note their dwindling numbers with some apprehension.

A famine was a difficult blow for even the largest packs to deal with, and moreso for the small and less established. Tartok was strong and they would survive, he knew—but it would test them greatly.

At some point during his return travel, the dark male came across an abandoned carcass of a doe. She was thin, probably sickly near the end of her life, but there was still meat—relatively fresh and well-kept, too, thanks to the chilling weather. He did not scent other predators nearby—she must have died naturally, then—and so came close and began to eat the soft underbelly. When he had his fill, Tonraq tore through the backbone until the body was divided somewhat evenly.

Although he could see the mountain from here, it would take some time to drag the head-half back by himself—but it did not matter. If the famine had spread as far as Tonravik's command, they would need what meat they could salvage.

And so, by the time Tonraq halted at the borders of Silvertip Mountain, the prize he carried was several days old and somewhat battered, but still edible. He released the thin ankles from his jaws, and lifted his head to call for his leader.

The voice was a familiar one. It brightened her spirits in the quiet days; Tartok kept to themselves, and so, too, did the world. This was the way things were meant; none bothered them, and in turn, they bothered none. When they were strong enough, they would overtake Neverwinter. That had been the plan, once. But now there was nothing to overtake. The wolves had gone without word or warning as the weather grew cooler and winter approached. With the whole region to themselves, Tonravik was none too worried on finding food and keeping it their own despite the scarcity. In the following days, she would seek some herself. They lived on the meat of the mountain, though that would wane to nothing if they kept on in this way. They would need to find herds to hunt, and fast. There was not one due for a while, but it would not bode well to wait and find a herd that might not exist and waste all their preservatives and provisions.

Tonravik moved toward the sound of the call, howling back in response as she neared: I am coming. Her long-legged strides did not cease even as she saw him, but she slowed if only slightly so that the impact she would create would not be too great that it would rattle him. She intended, of course, for their bodies to collide so that she could roughly greet her little brother—who truly was not so little, only in comparison to their family members—her body lurching forward so as to encompass him in her furs and arms. They were militaristic professionals, and affection was not in their nature; the few times their affection could be seen, it was roughly administered.

Her tail arched and waved. She was not sure if he had moved away, but she would doggedly follow with her dark eyes. Tonraq, too, had inherited their fathers eyes. Their similar names and their inheritances from their father, Kilgharrah, was not all they shared. They were, despite the lack of visible love, undoubtedly closer than any siblings could wish to be; it was the same for each litter. When reared by Siku and Kilgharrah, they had only had one another to compete with, to look to, to overcome. It made them closer. The falsehood and comfort of forever was not there. At any time, a sibling could go; the realities and cruelty of life was known implicitly by the cubs, always. And when they were old enough to be chased off, even then they had one another, and it was never petty abandonment. They had purpose.

And so, Tonravik was glad to see him returned, having sent him off. It was only when she smelled meat that she withdrew to look at the gift he brought. Old, but good; sustenance was sustenance. She nodded in thanks, licking her chops and observing him candidly. Tonravik wondered if he would be here to stay, if that was why he returned. She had not asked it of him; but Tartok stood for Tartok, and sometimes, things happened in this (pleasing) way.

He was answered with a howl of Tonravik's own—and, despite himself, a wave of relief washed over him. Tartok survives, it was confirmed. He hadn't realized that there had been a sliver of doubt held in his heart. They were strong, but famine was unpredictable and would test them. He was glad for Tonravik's resolve. Regardless of what else might have happened in his time away, it was a good sign that his elder sister remained.

When she emerged from the foothills, Tonraq remained still—he would not insult her by dodging the greeting that was his family's—that was Tartok's—way. He moved his shoulder into hers, and exhaled roughly into the furs of her neck. It is good to see you, the gesture said, wordless. Tonraq moved, then, but only enough steps back so they could see each other face-to-face; his dark chocolate eyes danced across her form as the yearling analyzed her health and stature. It was carefully done, his gaze never quite reaching hers, for he meant no challenge.

She remained silent, expectant, and so Tonraq simply rumbled, "We can."