Redhawk Caldera i'm out looking for action

the girl that arrives on the scene to greet him is young, if tvarog had to wager a guess not even a yearling yet as he gives a precursory study of her with ghastly jack’o’lantern orange gaze. yet, she greets him all the same; grinning as she did so. her pelage is an interesting combination of black, grey and red — where does the red come from, he cannot help but wonder? — and the duskrunner, far from any societal gentleman, does not politely inquire for an adult. to him, she is adult enough to greet him at the borders, evidenced enough by the fact that she was there.

hey, tvarog greets her, gaze lifting to survey the lands held within the claim of her pack. so very different from the sands and roughrock of his homeland. though playin’ nice isn’t exactly something tvarog’s good at — an unfortunate trait he’s willing to blame upon spending all of his life in his birthclan — he treads with caution and flirts with niceties. regardless, he appreciates what he perceives to be her gumption. questions flit across his mind but he chooses to ask none of them, favoring each more stupid than the last:

what was the name of her clan? did they need members?

he wouldn’t recognize the name even if it was given to him. they smelled like they could use an extra set of jaws but he was doubtful she’d offer that information right off the bat.

i’m tvarog. he offers his name instead.