Silvertip Mountain black halo

For Tonravik.
Early nightfall, not long after sunset. Near Silvertip Mountain.

Word of mouth -- whisperings on the wind, muttered suggestions from shifty-eyed strangers -- had brought him to this place. A most impressive cathedral of ice-capped desolation rose into the star-strewn heavens from the black tides of forest that lapped at its flanks. Silvertip Mountain, it was called, or so he had heard. Somehow, it seemed fitting for those of Tartok to seek such a place. Where others might find only difficulty and suffering, those of his blood found opportunity and solace. This was what it was to be Tartok.

He inhaled, scenting the soft breeze that wove its way softly through the clawed fingers of the moonlit forest. There was a lupine scent here, a strong one. One that made it abundantly clear that this land was claimed, or soon would be. Could it be her scent? He did not know, but hoped to find out shortly. Without further hesitation, the dark wolf threw up his muzzle, sending his deep, dark voice spiraling into the silence in a summoning howl that would surely reach the ears of the mistress that made her home on this sinister mountain.