Nova Peak the bloodied hatchet

The she-wolf was a veritable tank, not made for speed or agility but made for brute and brunt force. No doubt any panther-esque wolf could escape her if given the opportunity to, but if they were to fall into her grip during battle she would be inescapable. Such tactics were learned from her mother, her father, and each of her elders. Sangilak had the opportunity to come against swifter wolves; they were frustrating, exhausting, but her life was nothing but training and utilizing that training. She was young but well-learned. With little to no days off, even during her time of traveling with her companions (who, at present, were nowhere near), Sangilak was a machine. The behemoth was truly unaware of just how unbecoming she was, with her hunched look and her sempiternal glower; her furs were surely knotted and coarse from her lack of care or thought. 

The winds were not in her favor, but there were traces now—on the ground, here and there—of another passing through. She paused long enough to lift her head to its summit, her inky nostrils quivering as she took in a heavy draught of air. There was something of note in her peripherals, and so her head turned to better get a look at what exactly it was. 

The wolves stared at one another from where they stood. Her ears were pricked and erect, one cupping backward to listen to anything that might approach or linger in that direction. Sangilak stood alert, eyes upon only him though her attentions payed mind to everything around them that might prove another danger. From where they stood she assessed him, but as he stood she could sense no weakness to him. That was the way it was; in stillness, weakness was hard to sense except in the obvious face of an open wound or the scent of blood or exhaustion. The Anneriwok licked her chops, trying to discern at the least if he wished to cause trouble or be otherwise bothersome. Perhaps he, too, was simply here to gather his bearings.