Silvertip Mountain Trespass

Tonravik did not know where it was that he had come from, did not know that previously he had run with other wolves. The scent upon his furs did not tell her that he had wandered with anyone. They were so scant that it was hard to tell that he had been in a pack at all; but his good health were signs enough that recently, he had taken to traveling. It was no surprise. Often, males drifted to forge their own beginnings. Still, leaving here would not be so easy.

By doing so, you would—if worthy—become initiated into our family. Take the name and the oath. Her words were dark. Tonravik and her pack did not harbor the weak or the weary. They drew first blood. They took what was rightfully theirs, as they were the strong and ensured that the fittest survived. All that they did was for their own survival. Sometimes, others found themselves in the way. That was no fault of hers. No fault of Tartok. Life was cruel. Fate, equally so.

But perhaps not to the man before her.

What skills do you have? What could you bring me? What would you be willing to do for the path? The world was so very black and white. Tartok was by no means a darkly aligned or evil pack. They did what was necessary. And her subordinates were obedient to her, and the only voice that could speak above her own was her mother. The Matriarch of Tartok, as Tartok was her fruit. She would explain this all to him, of course, prior to anything at all. He would not be oblivious. None of them were.