Silvertip Mountain Profound

The first tang of Autumn air kissed the land-locked forest, and with it came a crisp breeze from the North. No longer would the days be rainy, muggy, or humid — as was the norm during the late summer weeks. Instead, the Earth would soon be cascaded into a vibrant parade of red and yellows as it prepared for its great winter slumber. For now, however, the land was simply happy to enjoy these rich Fall days when the rivers were still flush with fish, the grasses thick, and the harvest bountiful.

Yet, there was one creature who stood out against the green boughs of the alpine pines. She was a newcomer to these lands, worn ragged from the long journey. Her paws were sore, legs numb, and mind tired; but an effervescent light burned bright in her stormy eyes, fueled by a desire to make right all that was wrong in her world. Tuwawi's life seemed to fall to pieces right before her eyes. Snapjaw Battalion was far away, Njal was gone, and her encounter with Siku in a distant land had been fleeting. Now marred and alone, the red woman had the peaks of a range named Silvertip in her sight. The cliffs were as jagged as the scar on her face, and she smirked at their resemblance to her once-home. Perhaps this was a good omen.

Her reuniting with her mother had served her well. Tonravik's instincts had truly set themselves within her. They could no longer be ignored, and it was a decision she had made for herself to begin and build rather than feel Siku's fangs hound her heels. There was no question of what she would do. Her brothers had established themselves—she had seen—and so it was her own turn. Her uncertainty prior could have meant the early end to a dream she did not know she had. But it was a dream no longer. It would be reality in time.

Her return had not been long. She, too, was tired from the long journey. Her youth meant that her joints did not ache so heavily as they might have were she older, but it did not mean she was any less tired for it. The morning after, she would have to seek Aguta. She could not recall whether or not she had warned her of her potential leave. Tonravik would learn to be as communicative as her mother when it came to important matters such as soul-searching, something she did not know was even required in her life. Tonravik was impulsive. Her impulse now told her to claim, to lead, to take. And so she would.

The weather was growing cooler. Days would become more bearable here. Once, she could only travel by night. Now she could become more acclimated to the mornings and evenings here; it was a good time to return. She woke by noon, and the winds nipped at her furs hungrily. The sensation was one she could appreciate, and she picked her way through the territory, recalling its nuances from her previous days here. None, in her time gone, had taken these lands; only Neverwinter Forest, which displeased her, but for the while the territory was far enough that its claiming was not (yet) to be a true bother to her.

She descended. She sought the scents of Toothless and of Aguta, of Lasher, who she had met fleetingly. She was unsure if they had joined others in her time gone. She could not begrudge them if they did. Still, she hoped that with them, Tartok would dig its roots in this soil.

Long-legged strides took her toward an unfamiliar scent. Her head was high and so, too, was her tail; in time, this land would not be neutral. Best the stranger learn this now rather than later.

The cloud-dotted peaks drew the red woman in, entranced by their tall shadows and dappled faces. It was quiet here, with only the faint whistle of wind rushing past her dark tipped ears. Perhaps this would be a good place to take shelter for the night — sleep in a cool cave protected from the sun. However, a these thoughts passed through Tuwawi's mind, a dark smear disturbed the landscape, snaking between the small copses of pines and rocky outcrops. Her nose floated skywards, scenting for any trace of recognition; but there was none. This ebony wolf was a stranger, but even from this great distance Tuwawi could tell her body was laced with purpose.

She stood her ground — as their meeting was imminent — and waited to see what this wolf wanted; but the cards fell in an unexpected way. Her aggressor's tail waved, raised like a black flag as her immense body postured, all the while dripping with dominance. Tuwawi was immediately repulsed by the dark wolf's hubris, blood boiling as she watched each swaggering step. Messy red hair spiked as her lips curled back, the corner of her mouth pinched forward in a clear message. Don't tread on me.

The other did not take well to her posturing, and Tonravik let out a low snarl. Tuwawi had yet to step onto the land itself, truly, and so Tonravik turned her body sidelong so that the red-furred woman could see the length of her. Her intent was to inform the other of her possession. The Mountain was her own. The other was free to roam, but not here. The Tartok woman would do more than simply tread on the scarred female, otherwise.

Tonravik did not move otherwise, waiting for the woman to respond in whatever way she might. She herself took a single step forward, but her eyes lingered upon Tuwawi, not at all expectant but hard, curious. Her fangs, thus far, were sheathed. What the red woman perceived as excessive confidence Tonravik knew to be what was her right. She was an Alpha, a woman who would change this peaceful place, shake the bones of those that believed the weak had any place at all in this life. Her mother had taught her, and taught her well, how the body was ones greatest tool. Tonravik asserted herself with this rather than words. Words were wind, water, sand. They could not be grasped. Tasted, but how it left one always wanting! Slipping away. Actions could not be doubted. How sincere her every movement was, would always be!

Crypticism shrouded the nuances of their gestures, the language of their breed both intimate and complex. Yet, those known to it could translate with ease, deciphering even the most subtle of gestures into an ornate expression or feeling. Tonravik's stance was clear: she claimed this land regardless of what Tuwawi thought to be overzealous. Perhaps it was a pinch of jealousy that soured the red wolf's mood, put off by the confidence by which the other exhumed. However, it would not be wise to challenge one who thought themselves entitled to such a purchase. After all, Tuwawi had no one to fall back onto. No pack. No family. No mate. The thought stung, but acted as reminder of her precarious position in this world. She was a vagrant, nothing more than dust to this steadfast wolf, and could easily be blown away into nothingness.

Her jaw tensed as pearly fangs clenched from betwixt inky lips, listless as she received Tonravik's rumbled warning. It caused her to reflect on what she wanted in this world. The desire, the passion, to lead a group and claim land of her own had not yet been lit within Tuwawi. The call to be apart of something still tugged at her strings, and she hated herself for it. Two... three packs gone or abandoned, a lifetime of comrades lost. You know what? Fuck it. This brown-eyed she wolf could have this damned piece of rock if she wanted it that bad.

The ember huffed as the wrinkles on her dark face became smooth, watching the stranger with cautious, narrowed eyes. Her lips dropped, sheathing the teeth which spoke more than words. Their guards were up, but an unspoken truce had been made: Tuwawi wouldn't be bulldozed as long as she stayed off Tonravik's land. It was fair. It was their code... or so she assumed.

She advanced now, not to encroach upon Tonravik's territory, but to greet her as one wolf greeted another. Her masked face reached out to smell the mountain wolf, careful to retrain strong traction on the stoney ground lest Tonravik decided to snap.

Tonravik watched, waited. She prepared her defenses, and her muscles flexed within her as she eagerly awaited the moment to be on the offensive; for her best defense was her offense, to push and push, to disable the other from assailing her by being the tsunami of a wolf she was capable of being, plowing into them over and over as she tore her enemy asunder, a wave that relentlessly crashed even when one surfaced for air. She would never let them breath, keep them in her embrace, covetous, all-consuming.

She was still, then. Calm. There was no better predictor that a storm might come than the quietude and peace the world seemed to bring...

But there was no need. The other seemed to stand down, lacking the desire to test her will and aggression alike. It was then the other moved forward. Her pace told Tonravik all she needed to know, as did her body. The body could not deceive, not for wolves. They were incapable of using their physical being as a tool to create trust when trust ought not to be granted. Physical behavior was so honest. So true. Tonravik shifted to face Tuwawi now herself, to take a step toward her. She would greet the other in turn as instinct would demand her to, and so too internal desire.

Another step forward. Together they would close the distance. Discover one another by scent and by touch. Tonravik licks her chops as she leans inward to sniff hungrily, curiously, wetting her nose so as to better capture the scents she wore.

They stood besides each other; Tuwawi, like a small and bristling flame, next to Tonravik, who appeared as a great pillar of smoke. Even the most unpredictable elements could be called to order and become juxtaposed as if Nature herself had crafted it to be. The two wolves fit like puzzle pieces, but Tuwawi could not deny the tension in the air, and so proceeded with caution.

Yet, that caution soon transformed into curiosity. The rouge's nose twitched as it hovered over Tonravik's high set whither (especially challenging to reach for a diminutive wolf like Tuwawi), inspecting and analyzing. Smell was a miraculous sense, especially to a canine, and provided far more information than words could convey. The aroma of warm mountain air, the imprint of a bramble in her hair, a few pieces of fur caught in her mane from a recent kill... it was like a storybook had opened itself. However, the first chapter in Tonravik's novel struck a chord within Tuwawi. The sensation was cloudy, dulled by months of aging, but still prominent. Familiar, even. Her red ears pressed forward as she attempted to decode the lingering musk, tongue rolling over the notch in her lip as she remembered those burning talons which had marked her.

And suddenly, it all came back. "Siku," the ember muttered, ears pricked to attention from the epiphany. "You are Siku's. You are Tartok." It was certain. Her expression brightened, and then plunged into doubt. What did it mean? Tuwawi took a step back, giving the shadow her room, and allowed herself a moment to process the true implications of their meeting.

In mere seconds, she learned of Tuwawi and her most recent expeditions. There were patches of terrain debris upon her here and there, small, miniscule, but enough for a wolf's keen nose to sort through and understand. Tuwawi had not belonged to any for a while, and the familiarity of scents such as Tartok's other legion she had seen in passing (given to a brother when Sevendeath had felt himself too old to continue his lead) was not at all there, for Tuwawi had been gone too long to have seen that change, so Tonravik could not know her—

Then the other spoke. She seemed to relax, but internally she stiffened. This wolf knew her mother. You are Tartok. Tonravik nodded. She looked to Tuwawi, certain the other would have not acknowledged this if she had abandoned Tartok altogether. But she looked... lost. Still. We are Tartok, she corrected the other with certainty; her dark brown eyes look to the perplexed wolf colored in shades of the sun and the earth alike so as to check for her reaction. The other had seemed lost, and so Tonravik asserts, You have been found. Her plume arcs and twitches, as though this was a good thing; Tonravik did believe it to be so. Tartok stood together. Brothers in arms.

Tonravik shifts her weight, waiting for what Tuwawi might do. She had not heard the others name on the wind, but if the other knew of her mother and of Tartok, surely she wore the name, too. And if she fled, her crime might be realized then, and she might need to take more than her tongue—

But she was impassive, her features as stony as her own mothers could turn, wearing Siku's perpetual grimace that was remarkably her own to the very bitter end of those down-turned lips.

A strong jaw, chiseled features, and a hollowed stare... The likeness of her mother was striking, and it was startling how well Tonravik's origins had been masked by her sire's lineage. Kilgharrah had passed before Tuwawi's inception into Tartok, and she had never met or known the man. Only the Issumatar's courtship with a wolf named Aves rested on within her thoughts, floating like oil on water; and it reminded Tuwawi how quickly Siku's desires swayed. Was it best for the pack? Or simply most convenient for for their leader? Sometimes these two things seemed synonymous. Regardless, having an outsider so blatantly favored by their matriarch had caused grief within the ranks. Tartok was fickle like that - raw and uncensored - but the sense of perpetual existence was infinite, and the strength Tuwawi once felt was more than tangible. Perhaps she had become a cynic, now; jaded by a lifetime of struggling to survive under the stifling grip of others who called themselves tall. But was it enough to deter her decision? Did it diminish the sense of responsibility to those who took her in?

Her half-lidded gaze dropped to the ground as Tuwawi weighed her options, but Tartkok would not - could not - be refused; and it wasn't because she was afraid of loosing her tongue. There would be worse things to live with. But could she put her trust in this wolf? A number of variables existed, and yet a small glimmer within Tonravik's chestnut eyes seemed to quell Tuwawi's inner burdens, and let her mind rest easy. But one thing was certain- Tuwawi would be a difficult beast to tame.

"Tuwawi," she replied simply, letting her words be used in the most economical way possible. Her raspy accent jumbled the Inuit language somewhat clumsily. No other information was provided beyond that, after all... more was certain to come in time. Her ruddy ears rolled forward, awaiting the pitch wolf's response as she gazed out onto the mountain where Tartok would grow anew.

Tuwawi. The eyes of Tonravik seemed to glow. This was the woman Siku had named. Her affinity toward Tuwawi seemed to extend only slightly; but a woman trusted by her mother would become trusted by her in time. Tartok implicitly trusted one another. There was nothing about Tuwawi that set her on edge; if anything, she was more at peace in knowing who this was.

And so at last she steps backward, gesturing toward the mountain. Home. It would be home to Tuwawi, too, if this was her desired station. She waited to see what the ember would decide, loath to force her. There would need to be a name to their battalion, and in time they would decide one. But for now, they were the beginnings of Tartok. They would consume any who decreed themselves enemy in their destructive whirlwind, and leave nothing of said enemy in their wake. Tuwawi had been lost, but Tonravik sought to find the identity she fought to grasp.