Silvertip Mountain rock

Tonravik had spent a few short days on Silvertip Mountain. She was learning now of its trails and its hidden paradises. Streams and rivers, forests and small falls. It was cooler around the top, where she stayed; it is good, because she despised the unbearable Summer heat. Now that it is night, Tonravik moves to further investigate the place that she is becoming more acclimated to. It is not so dangerous as the Mountains of the North that she had grown accustomed to (alongside another, who may or may not return to her side). The wolf she had come with hated the heat, too. She could not find him, but she did not search for him; she was not his master, as he was not hers. Tonravik saw herself equal to very, very few, but being that she owed the male her life, she subjected herself to his company and, dare she think it?, enjoyed his presence.

But for the while, he was not there, and she could not smell him, so her nostrils sought other scents, scents that could inevitably teach her more of this place. She knew no other wolves lived here. But perhaps others passed through? Ah, but suddenly she was no longer interested in the presence of others... that would require speaking, and she was in no mood...

She rose her proud head and shook it out, loose furs falling free. Tonravik was used to a sempiternal winter; here, it was hotter than... anything she'd ever experienced. The heat the sun brought was worse than the heat an enemies fang brought when it hit the body, but she could not decide if it was worse than the shame. The thought was one that passed, because it was night, and she need not worry about the hellish heat of day.

Her insatiable thirst for knowledge and exploration had led her to the high, windy bluffs of the mountain that overlooked the forest where she lived. She had heard that the locals called it Silvertip, and she had set out this morning with the hope of seeing the peak's namesake for herself. But the summit was too high, and she had run out of daylight and energy before reaching it. Now, as she gingerly descended the steep trails under cover of the night -- taking her time so as not to misstep in the darkness and twist an ankle or tumble down a darkened ravine -- she found herself marveling at the beauty of the scenery under the bright moonlight. The trees around and above her, limned in silver, stood like ancient sentinels watching over those who passed beneath their boughs. Occasional breaks in the forestry gave her glimpses out over expansive valley that stretched out below the hulking mountain, cast in a pewter glow and mottled with shadows and darkness.

She walked silently, and though the breeze told her nothing of any others nearby, in the dark of the woods ahead she thought she saw a shadow move. She stopped where she stood, watching and listening intently. Sure enough, she saw movement, but couldn't identify it. She bristled warily, her bright eyes taking on a sinister light, and a soft growl rumbled deep in her chest -- a warning to whatever was there that she would not be an easy prize if that was their intent.

A play of light in the dappled wood had her eyes falling from scenic drop nearby to physical, sentient being. Wolf. The low rumble was met with a bristle, and intrigued though Tonravik was, her patience was tested by the others emitted sound. This was her rock. And so Tonravik turns toward the other, her long-legged stride full of the power she possessed. The mountain seemed to plateau here, and so there was nothing to ascend.

Lost? She asserts, her dark, murky brown eyes far from warm despite their earthy hue. No, another attribute given to her from her mother was how very frigid she could become; to this pale wolf, perhaps the blistering cold of her eyes could remind the other of her own home. Tonravik settled things in a physical manner, and was quite prepared to. It was clear by her stance and her display that this would be hers, and it may as well have been already. This is mine.

The growl from the pale throat faded to silence in anticipation of the shadow's response, yet its giver was met with naught but silence. The trees, those black watchmen, shifted and stirred seemingly with nervous excitement in the breeze, wagering amongst one another in hushed whispers and sighs whom they thought might emerge from this standoff victorious. A gauzy cloud slid away from the luminous moon, and subtle rays of light beamed down through breaks in the canopy and poured over the forest floor in broken, languid pools of silver. One such moonbeam fell upon what was unmistakably a bristled mane, pouring liquidly into the emptiness between those sinister black quills and tipping them in luminescent quicksilver. Sigrún's eyes followed the razor line of hackles to the flat of a moonlit head, upon which there were two stark ears turned sharply toward her. From there, her gaze fell upon two bottomless black pits that could only be the shadow's eyes, and if moonbeams could catch fire and burn with the heat of a thousand suns, such was the gleam Sigrún saw in those dark eyes.

"Lost?" came a word from the wolf's mouth, as brittle and frigid as arctic wind over black ice, puncturing the silence like a hammer-blow. Sigrún, as brilliant and radiant in the moonlight as this creature was dark and shrouded, kept her chilly eyes locked on those of the shadow and said, with a barbed edge to her voice, "Nope." And then silence fell again, punctuated only by the soft susurration of the ancient pines around them.

The others response merited immediacy from Tonravik. Internally, she fought to find the right words, and it took minutes to find them. Minutes that might have been grueling to anyone else. Her behavior in this time was impeccable. Most would have lost their head, immediately. For one reason or another, Tonravik had given to the arctic stranger that which she would give no other: her life. The other was a beautiful being, carved from the glaciers of the lands from whence she came, no doubt. The striking blue of her eyes reminded Tonravik of her own mothers, but the blue of her mothers she would never meet. These she held fast to, clung to, with such ferocity that she hoped the other would avert the crisis she headed toward.

Then you know your way out, she rumbled darkly, lifting head and tail alike. Mine. The trees that whispered did so for her, as though to gently warn the northerner; their surreptitious language understood by only those who listened, and listened well. Her own voice lacked the sharp edge, did not echo that which Sigrún's voice could possess. No. It was empty. As would be the void Sigrún would find herself in were she not to heed her word. Chin tucked as she prepared to clash; she did not fear the other. She was Tartok, and Tartok was strength. It was known. Ears pivoted and thrust aggressively over her brow, but she did not snarl or growl pettily; she was the silent killer, the patient aggressor. She would paint herself upon this winter-white wolf until she was nothing but red. The trees seemed to loom over them, spectators, hungry to see one bend; but Tonravik understood the necessity of displaying power to earn respect. It was something she could feel coming, just as she could feel the storms approach.