Bearclaw Valley there are no immortals in this life; even stories come to die

Had Ikkalrok the words, she might have agreed; she was hardly smart enough, socially, to understand that doing so would undermine the sentiment behind the words. As it were, the dark she wolf said nothing even still. For the better, even if she did not know it. Galena spoke a word Ikkalrok had heard in that tongue before, though she knew it differently.

Nanuk.

Few things managed to translate. Ikkalrok had needed to come to be the muscle on many occassion for ambassadors, which were underutilized things in their culture. Truth be told, she and her ilk were more likely to kill whoever came to them for any parlay, firm and unyielding. But Tartok had also come to find that sometimes, before this was done—it was inevitable, after all—there could be more that was gained firstly.

Understanding it was one thing, but responding was another. And unfortunately for herself, and for others too, Ikkalrok seemed to comprehend only the bare minimum. As Galena explained, Ikkalrok listened while watching the ursine. Peace with bears; unheard of, for her ilk. Tartok displaced the beasts before the beasts could displace them. Sharing was a foreign thing; they walked the same earth, but they did not share the lands they claimed with one another. Peace with bears was had once the bears were gone.

Whatever else was said was not understood at all; too big of words, too confusing a concept to even grasp. Understanding the first thing that was said, though, Ikkalrok looked to Galena and snorted brutishly.

Ikkalrok had yet to meet a nanuk who shared in Merrick's sentiment. What would he do, when the bruin struck? Her head turned back to look to the bear, who sniffed at the air and lumbered on. For now, it was oblivious to their presence. The furs along Ikkalroks nape prickled.