Swiftcurrent Creek leviathan

The cold never bothered him; it was a dangerous thing to ignore of course, but there were many dangerous things that had become commonplace to the warrior. Within his first year of life he'd seen children freeze to death in the wastelands of the High North and he had learned from their mistake, their bravado and their stupidity, and he had survived. The man had witnessed battles, too. The snow running red with blood, staining the earth so that nothing would grow — or so some legends went. He longed for those days to return to him. Longed for it the way an elder might wish for youth, except that Tulimaq was in the prime of his life and he knew it. What he longed for wasn't the good old days, but he longed for home. For familiarity. It was a slowly dawning realization couched in his daydreams; he'd had an inkling of it before, when he'd visited the newly arrived warrior people of the Lost Creek, but in this precarious moment where he was tempting fate (and wishing, in some deep part of him, that fate would turn foul just for his amusement), he realized he knew the answers to the questions in his mind. He knew, for instance, that this temperate place was not to his liking and he need not spoil himself to it. It was not good enough, the people not strong enough, the effort too great to make it all reach a greater level. As the cold water hit his belly and he felt the gradual dissipation of the chill, Tulimaq knew — he had to leave this place.

That meant putting Merrit's tests on hold. His lessons would stop, he would sever ties. He did not want to leave the boy to the fate of his family though. A part of him was attached, even if they'd only spent a few lessons together. He had so much potential and they would waste it, turn him passive and meek and all things unnatural. Ah — there is movement in Tulimaq's periphery. He does not know the size of the stranger or what they want, but he sees that flash of roving shadow and he pauses his thoughts, lurches to a halt with his strides. He will make up his mind about Merrit later. For now, with his blood aflame and his mind buzzing with frustration, he would set his sights on this spy. It does not occur to him that he is trespassing until it is too late, and the wolf is already on an intercepting course; but it matters little to Tulimaq, who is always raring for a fight.

When the stranger bursts from cover, Tulimaq sizes him up with a flick of his gaze and a single stalled moment. They move with precision, a sense of strength and prowess held within the confines of a young and healthy body; Tulimaq cannot tell exactly what age this man is, but he doesn't hold any signs of awkward youth or disproportion. He's black as smoke, and carries himself more like a warrior than a leader in that moment. Tulimaq recognizes something familiar about the stance of his body as it veers in to his path, and he stops without baring his teeth even though he very much wants to. This man is impressive, and anyone that impresses Tulimaq is added to a mental list of people to test. He wants to take a bite out of this tall, dark, and lording creature.

But he doesn't. Instead he lurches to a halt and draws back a half-step, flashing a glare towards the dark wolf out of habit. His own posture does not diminish, but he is a naturally proud creature and so he carries himself as such - not demonstrably antagonistic of the stranger's own position, but not meek either. He will not budge one way or the other until he has more information. This man is a warrior, but who could have taught him if the rest of this valley is full of such soft bodies?

The only thing that comes to mind is the obvious — or its obvious to Tulimaq because he knows of Tartok, he is Tartok, and there have been stories told to him of his kin trying to branch in to this region. Ikkalrok, all the way back to Siku. He clears his throat and tests the air with a greeting, falling back in to his habit of his mother tongue — Aluu×taarujut-malik.