Permafrost Hollows my bones do not taste of crown and silver

It is an easy silence the duo moves in, and Sangilak is content with this. At the sound of another, her attentions divert to the wolf approaching. She recognized him by his scent, though it surprised her to see his station as subordinate. Sangilak herself felt her ears twitch atop her head at the thought, and listens as the nameless man names the woman she knew, largely, as 'Thuringwethil'. His moniker for her earns nothing from her, physically. Within she thinks of the Issumatar, and the armies amassed by her. The name Commander on a yearling is weighty, and difficult to understand; she did not equate it to the wolf whom had lived for years and years, her mother, but wondered the meaning of the name when related to the leader of the mount. She would ask, later; it did not seem a suitable time. She had never been privy to the inner workings of Drageda, but if she were to be or become a functioning part of it, Sangilak would implement herself into it in a manner that meant she was well-oiled for the smoothest transition.

His name was Warbone. She knows only few wolves by the name they were born with; she never asks, she never cared. What was a name? To Tartok, it was the beginning, it was who you had shown yourself to be, or a reminder. Sangilak had no use for names of outsiders when she knew scents. The name he bore did suit him in the tongue it was spoken, and Sangilak saw him now in full, and could appreciate the beast he was.

She was silent even still, though she nods as her name is given. It was as good as a hello as anything, from her, and her eyes do not move from him as her own thoughts form within her head. There is no making sense of them here and now, and so she does not think of them at all. Instead she silently looks out to the horizon again, enjoying the chilled air. Sangilak had followed Thuringwethil here perhaps to gain her own peace of mind; in her days of travel, there had been no time for the thought of a moment such as this.