Silvertip Mountain Profound

In mere seconds, she learned of Tuwawi and her most recent expeditions. There were patches of terrain debris upon her here and there, small, miniscule, but enough for a wolf's keen nose to sort through and understand. Tuwawi had not belonged to any for a while, and the familiarity of scents such as Tartok's other legion she had seen in passing (given to a brother when Sevendeath had felt himself too old to continue his lead) was not at all there, for Tuwawi had been gone too long to have seen that change, so Tonravik could not know her—

Then the other spoke. She seemed to relax, but internally she stiffened. This wolf knew her mother. You are Tartok. Tonravik nodded. She looked to Tuwawi, certain the other would have not acknowledged this if she had abandoned Tartok altogether. But she looked... lost. Still. We are Tartok, she corrected the other with certainty; her dark brown eyes look to the perplexed wolf colored in shades of the sun and the earth alike so as to check for her reaction. The other had seemed lost, and so Tonravik asserts, You have been found. Her plume arcs and twitches, as though this was a good thing; Tonravik did believe it to be so. Tartok stood together. Brothers in arms.

Tonravik shifts her weight, waiting for what Tuwawi might do. She had not heard the others name on the wind, but if the other knew of her mother and of Tartok, surely she wore the name, too. And if she fled, her crime might be realized then, and she might need to take more than her tongue—

But she was impassive, her features as stony as her own mothers could turn, wearing Siku's perpetual grimace that was remarkably her own to the very bitter end of those down-turned lips.