Silvertip Mountain there isn't anybody, darling

Tonravik was surefooted, even upon slick stone and muddy earth. Not one mountain was identical to the other, but she had always been a quick learner, and there were similarities here and there that she clung to. She had been a part of her mothers Tartok, and then of another she had been sent to (the Bloodbringer Battalion). And she rejoined her mother at her mothers request, only to be chased in the end to bring her own legacy to Tartok. To build and enhance, to bring more soldiers for her mothers ultimate calling. Perhaps the greatest war of all. What was it? Her loyalists would know when that time came, but ah, until then they were ever-preparing...

The keening of the familiar voice she had heard but once called to her attentions. Sweet devotion. Tonravik had heard of Taltos, Lasher, the man of many names. Her mother trusted him, as she had trusted all of her immediate followers. And by extension, Tonravik did, too; but they would learn of one another, to truly trust, to truly respect. Not from where they came or of the stories told, but from more—

And she moved to meet him, dry thus far largely due to the coniferous trees that shielded her, collecting the rain and allowing it to fall in teeny rivulets away from her. But as she moved into the open world where Lasher lurked, she embraced the gentle touches of the rain, unperturbed by the elements. She knew each of them well.

Dark eyes captured him, and she paused. Not because she was wary, but because she wanted to know him, to learn of him, to see how he approached, how he moved, how he spoke. Her mother was not eloquent enough to describe him as he truly was. Poetry in flesh. Had she been able to speak in such pretty words, she would have spoken of him as just that. Poetry in flesh.