Sawtooth Spire sunlight

If only there were a way to do this privately. She hated the spectacle of it all; the display, the waiting. Mostly it was the begging. Too many rogues had come to her own doorstep with claims that they were worthy of running with her. Twice she had given in, and twice she had regretted it. Now the tables were turned.

Ikkuma wasn't like those rogues, she reasoned. She was of Tartok after all. Not a fully fledged member of that militaristic cult, but close enough. She would not stoop so low as to beg anyone for anything —

Ah, but her mind was getting ahead of her. Meanwhile, the mountain waited. Within its shadow lurked a stranger who came striding closer, yet remained poised a moment later just beyond her reach. He was familiar, but she could not place why; Ikkuma hasn't been this way in years and in the life of one wolf, that was aeons. The stern expression on his face suited him. It suited the mountain too, she mused to herself.

She was silent too. Waiting. He did not break the silence and with a hitched sigh nesting in her chest, she finally gives in and looks away from him. A crack in her own armour, a momentary weakness. Submission was not something she took lightly even if her display of it was brief. As her gaze returns to him she states cooly, Got room for one more on your mountain?