Silver Moraine the biggest fire the north has ever seen

Indeed, Tatkret was not used to Sangilak's sort of games. Though he was of Tartok, and they were known for their brutality even when playing, it wasn't often that he ever sought to injure the other in play. He himself had been bruised and bit many times but never did the same to his company, even if they were as rough as Sangilak. He reserved his fangs and vice-like grip only for battle, where he was free to hurt the other as much as he wanted.

The response he got was expected, and he was knowledgable enough to remain silent, knowing he would be shown rather than told.

He gave a soft "ah" of understanding as they reached higher up the rocky remains of the river. Beyond a barren field and a small rise was the ocean, grand and ever-reaching across the horizon. Of course, he had seen it before as a cub, to be trained and accustomed to the different sort of terrain. He hadn't been as fond of it as he was the mountains, but enjoyed the delicacies it yielded. Tatkret turned from the view to his companion with a quizzical look scrawled upon his sharp features. He respected Sangilak almost as much as he did her mother — who he essentially idolised, not that he'd admit it — but it did frustrate him that her plans were never easy to decipher. He himself had no sense of purpose at all save for expanding the Tartok name and ensuring it thrived (as well as tend to his own needs in a mildly hedonistic way), and so was well suited to being a follower.

"Why?" he asked off-handedly, not entirely expecting an answer.