Silver Moraine get a move on

It had been nearly a month since her sudden but inevitable betrayal of the Redhawks; a month since she had been cornered by the wandering band of Tartok wolves, and a month since she'd let herself get swept up in her own doubts and fears. It hadn't hurt too much when she'd fled from the pack — Ikkuma hadn't thought about them that much while she'd escaped, and had been more focused on avoiding the cause of her misgivings. The wolves of Tartok were a hardy breed and once she'd yearned to be considered good enough for them, but since tasting freedom and experiencing life by her own rules, she'd adapted away from their teachings. The chance of seeing her siblings again — she thought of them and just knew she had to run.

And so she was here, creeping her way along a ridge of corrugated debris. The taste of rat was on her tongue, and it was foul, but she had been desperately hungry and could not find much else. Ikkuma didn't want to linger long in any one area lest she be found by one of the Tartok recruits, and she hoped to put as much distance between herself and their last known location to be safe. So she had been heading east, but as she crossed along the moraine she was forced to move steadily north with the curvature of the undulating earth, and soon she could see distant mountains.

he was off again, this time headed slowly toward the coasts gathering autumnal cold. the north did not call to mahler; while he was a hale beast built for rougher climes, he saw no reason to willfully seek such out. and yet today the teeth of distant mountains claimed his attention in a way the gargoyle had not suspected. 
it was with thoughts gathering cloudstorm in his mind that mahler moved on. gone was the music of earlier summertime; now the drum of impending snow sounded in the sharp air. swiftcurrent at his back, the beast prowled forth. there was no attachment within him; he lived in the creekland on the mercy of two wolves he did not respect as he had wylla, if only to protect chusi. and the newcomers who wore constantine's scent were not wolves with which he wanted to mingle.
mahler suspected he had grown largely antisocial, and this was compounded by the brief annoyance he felt upon seeing the powerful form of another ahead. cloaked in earth and ivory, the stranger sported a peculiar but intriguing blaze of scarlet along their shoulders. though he did not wish to be seen, or to speak, mahler gave a polite chuff to announce himself all the same, hard lavender gaze waiting for the other to turn. he was too close to depart without notice, and somehow bound by an irritating sense of propriety.

The mountains. They weren't so impressive when you were forced to live upon them without the support network that usually followed the wolf; she couldn't help but look upon those distant fragmentary things and scowl, reminded of the hardships that her mother had borne her (and her siblings) in to. She did not want to go north if she could help it. But Ikkuma also knew she had nothing here. Nothing except for the nagging sense that the wolves of Tartok would find her, or the Redhawks with their spite following her betrayal. She did not like to turn tail in this way, but the warrior knew she could not stay.

Or that's what she thought. And when a hushed call broke the calm of the cloudy day, she visibly startled from her thoughts. Her head whipped around and she fixed her sharp gaze upon the stranger, sizing them up in a few glances. It wasn't Ikkalrok — didn't look fit enough to be Tartok, and in fact they looked much older. Grizzle grew along the stranger's features that she could discern, even from this distance, that he might've been an older fellow.

Rather abruptly she called out, What. As if being caught here was really a giant inconvenience. Truthfully, she was happy to have a break from her worries.

a voice rang out harshly against the cold air of the morraine, and mahler's ears cupped forward. he had not expected the femininity of the tones, but then again, the musiker had always been a poor judge of what consituted a woman. or perhaps he had only forgotten; after all, der kinder—
a click of his jaws, an audible reminder to keep that particular place gated, and he was approaching the woman on broad dark paws. his silver-dusted hackles lifted only momentarily, a warning that he would dissuade any attack, real or feigned, with violence, and then mahler settled to browse her features with a neutral assessment. "are you from nearby?" the gargoyle rumbled, opting to be direct with his brusque companion. there was little need to waste time belonging to either of them with the idle small talk too often engaged in during first meetings.