Dawnlark Plains ranger

This one had followed Issitoq to his land. Would know more of the man that she had only seen as she quit their company. He spoke, and her dull eyes regarded him with new interest. 

His words were broken, disjointed—in a tongue she knew, but not very well. We can, she speaks in Inuktitut, expecting him now to answer their creedo—waiting then to hear, we will. 

Tartok had grown much, since the time it had first come to be. In its earliest days, secrecy was demanded of its people—back then, there were more enemies. Times had changed—Tartok was a force in of itself, and those that made themselves an enemy could speak no ill of them. They were killed—it was as simple and as brutal as that. No vengeance, no need to look over one’s shoulder.

Their name was better known, now. But their ways were still their own, something not shared to any but for themselves. There was a reason for their continued foothold, and each that had become Tartok took their oath knowing that their lives, and the lives of their kill-brothers and kill-sisters, depended upon it. 

And should he say those words, it would be decided—she would fight with him. Her loyalty was to Tartok, to the strength and power of her chosen pack, before any other.