Silvertip Mountain Profound

They stood besides each other; Tuwawi, like a small and bristling flame, next to Tonravik, who appeared as a great pillar of smoke. Even the most unpredictable elements could be called to order and become juxtaposed as if Nature herself had crafted it to be. The two wolves fit like puzzle pieces, but Tuwawi could not deny the tension in the air, and so proceeded with caution.

Yet, that caution soon transformed into curiosity. The rouge's nose twitched as it hovered over Tonravik's high set whither (especially challenging to reach for a diminutive wolf like Tuwawi), inspecting and analyzing. Smell was a miraculous sense, especially to a canine, and provided far more information than words could convey. The aroma of warm mountain air, the imprint of a bramble in her hair, a few pieces of fur caught in her mane from a recent kill... it was like a storybook had opened itself. However, the first chapter in Tonravik's novel struck a chord within Tuwawi. The sensation was cloudy, dulled by months of aging, but still prominent. Familiar, even. Her red ears pressed forward as she attempted to decode the lingering musk, tongue rolling over the notch in her lip as she remembered those burning talons which had marked her.

And suddenly, it all came back. "Siku," the ember muttered, ears pricked to attention from the epiphany. "You are Siku's. You are Tartok." It was certain. Her expression brightened, and then plunged into doubt. What did it mean? Tuwawi took a step back, giving the shadow her room, and allowed herself a moment to process the true implications of their meeting.