Silver Moraine kill

Ordinarily, Tikigâk might have proceeded on to investigate—but she was hungry, and this was a wolf who knew these lands better than she did then. It was winter; if there was a herd within his claim, and he invited her to hunt with him, it would only be a fool that might ignore such an opportunity. 

There was no denying she was, in addition to this, a food motivated being. Tikigâk regarded him once more, noting now the power in his step. His scars affected none of his movements; none of them were so deep as to affect him physically. 

Tikigâk turned to prowl very nearly directly alongside him, but being a stranger in his home she did not presume to occupy that space. For all of her gargantuan height, something they shared, she kept her head level with his shoulder. If permitted, she would sniff the furs there as they moved to learn more of him, of his status.

His offer was not the way of Tartok who cared only for their own, and so she believed he was no wolf of their branches—but perhaps he might wish, like herself, to become. 

Or perhaps he was, and he recognized in her what she recognized in him. Some things were that simple. To hunt with a kill-brother or kill-sister was as good a way as any to bring one into their fold. 

Tikigâk mulled over this in a comfortable silence, breath rolling out in draconian plumes as she exhaled slowly. Her gaze took in the new surroundings, mapping out the terrain they traversed as her mind turned to the tactical component of their hunt. She had never before hunted upon a glacier, though he had only gestured that way—perhaps that was not the space the herd occupied. 

She would follow the man’s lead, listening to him as they walked on the path he guided them across.