Ouroboros Spine weathered

Just when she grew accustomed to the silence that had fallen between them, Kroc posed a question. For a moment, Echelon said nothing as she drew her snout up from the earth, eyes bearing down on the mess of growth ahead of them. It came to her sharply though what tongue that Kroc spoke; it's roughness intrigued her. Few spoke in that tongue for good reason. Her gaze turned then, seeking out the palely colored female for a moment's glance.

"Since my beginning," she answered then, replying back in their so-called native tongue. She had always been a wolf of Tartok. Her father had been a wolf of Tartok, though his beginnings were not as grand as the progeny he had helped create. The same could have been said of her mother, though she was long gone and dead. One of Siku's soldiers that had been lucky enough to die a noble death.

Her ears cupped backward, catching the call of a goose somewhere overhead. Flying away, southerly for all she knew. It was but a distraction from the question she decided to return to the beastly canine. "How long have you?"