Ouroboros Spine Black as the Pit from pole to pole

Tonravik did not know the life that he had once lived. The past was something she did not dwell in. What was the use? Lessons learned were just that, embedded in memory and simply a part of who she had become. There was no telling what had made her this way. If it was genetics, then it was equally the way she was nurtured. Tonravik was a mix of both her parents, though perhaps only slightly more observant than her mother thanks to Kilgharrah. But she was still simple. Brutish. Tonravik only fought the necessary battles. She protected her own, her lands. Those that trespassed, trespassed against them.

He had an interesting look to him. As they worked together, Tonravik looked to him once. "You have fought many battles," Tonravik assumes, then, while speaking of his scars. Scars to the woman were something to be admired, but she had no idea that his held particular meaning. Death. Being used. Abuse. Tonravik was not abusive. But she was intolerant to insubordination, a base and primal being. If one was truly wolf, they understood. It was instinct. She had never scarred one of her own, because putting a wolf in their place was never to harm them, but remind them if they seemed to somehow forget. She was alpha. When it was questioned, it would be answered.