Silvertip Mountain there isn't anybody, darling

She watches as he moves, and soon he is near her. She continues in her own trek, until they are side by side, her snout near his rear. She turns so that they are perfectly parallel to one another, shifting her weight and responding to his chuff with a deep rumble. She was pleased to be in his company again, and it showed as her typically stiff tail swept in an arc, left and right, left and right. It was this way with Tartok. As her mother, if she loved any thing at all, it was these wolves named Tartok. Each taking the lifelong oath. United not by blood but by behavior, and a professed name that meant something that others believed them to be: Darkness. But they were her beacons, her light. As they guided her, she would guide them.

As he observes her, looks to her, she exhales a bison-like breath from her nostrils. Her inquiry is evident. What do you see? She does not expect flattery, she does not expect pretty words. She wondered what he saw, more than just before his eyes. The future to come, the moment they were in now, what was it he saw? Perhaps he could show her, or perhaps he would speak. She preferred silence, but did not mind listening to others whose company she would always keep. For they spoke so very well, far better than she could. She turns to look ahead, to the path she had just traveled to come to him.