Silvertip Mountain calling

Tonravik listened. If there was one thing she did well, it was listen. There was never very much for her to say. Most everything did not require words. Tonravik knew the words, understood them; she had heard them many times from her own mother. It was only recently that they resounded within her and had any merit; Tonravik respected very few, and those few had earned it. Aguta, too, had earned her respect; she had known the woman up until she had left at a year old, and the woman had followed her mother and Tartok faithfully, ardently. There were few that could boast such longevity. Not only this, but the woman had been beaten by a mountain, and rose to walk upon it without fear.

When Aguta stepped forward, Tonravik shifted her weight, instinctively lifting her head some. She knew well enough no violence would come from this; still, the subtle movement would merely enable Aguta to know that she knew her own role, that she knew better than to disregard Aguta. It had not been her intention before, but oftentimes her actions and their intent were lost in translation. How could that not be? Tonravik, too, would have been disappointed. While she did not regret her leave, she did regret that she had not informed the icy-eyed woman of it. Her lobes swiveled back apologetically.

A heavy breath fell from her inky nostrils. A slow nod. Aguta had crossed no line; Tonravik, fortunately, was not so temperamental as her mother, who was far more bullheaded. Perhaps she had earned some semblance of levelness from her father. Tonravik moved forward now, to roughly push her chest against Aguta in a gesture that was peaceable, licking her chops as her tail stiffly jut out behind her: I will not disappoint.