Silvertip Mountain there isn't anybody, darling

Witch. A strange term, for a woman who could conjure nothing. No. That was not true. Tonravik knew her mother was a woman who had, in fact, conjured many things. Out of rubble and rejection, she rose victorious. She rallied few wolves and with those few wolves came to be the strongest of packs known. Lasher was one of them. He had seen it all, known her mother when Siku had been away to fight for their right. Then she had been nearly old enough to have been chased out; it was when Siku returned that she and her brothers were run off, and Kilgharrah again fought for the opportunity to breed. He won once more, Tonravik had heard; and then he had died, suddenly, without cause.

Tonravik was as cold as her mother was in the matter. Her father had been strong, but something in him had caused that death. Tonravik wondered if it was in her, if such a thing was genetic; she was very much her mother, but ah, Kilgharrah could be seen in the contours of her face, the brush-strokes of subtle brown near her belly, hardly visible except to the particularly keen eye. And then her eyes. How warm of a color they were, but how very cold they looked. A temperature so cold it burned.

And you are of her blood. Yes, she was. Tonravik did not seek to earn his favor by simply being of her mothers blood. Blood means nothing. This she was taught. Blood bound them as family, but if that was true, then she was bound to the Kesuk's. Their feud may be over, but she could not acknowledge her relation to the arrogant family that had shunned her mother. Her grandparents had not, she had heard, but Tonravik believed in what she saw. Tonravik moves to press nearer to Taltos in a manner not aggressive or intimate but possessive. Her tail is rigid as her ears perk atop her head. This means something. She need not prove herself to anyone; Tonravik knew she was more than capable. It was embedded within her, and she would believe it was not because of blood or birthright but because it was who she was. She had become this, been shaped. Tonravik had fought thousands without knowing to be brought into this world.

And here she was. Here she would be.

Tonravik moves forward. She invites him with a roll of her shoulder. They would find quarry for the pack to hunt, and she blinks away the drizzle that comes down, gently administering kisses to her lids, her withers, her tail.