Silver Moraine kill

He moved again in stride with her, step by powerful step. This pleased her, which ought to have alarmed her—this proximity they shared was given to none but for her people. Her rough brand of affection was well known by those that she had run with, though today’s was something that began a little softer. The hunt had no doubt eased some of her toothier inclinations. 

She felt his gaze upon her again, heard his question. It could be a dangerous thing to answer. How many had Tartok killed? Conquered? True, it had always been born of necessity—and Tikigâk could find no guilt for doing what she must to survive, and to help her people continue to thrive. To weep over the acts she had committed would not purify her. And why should she weep at all? 

Tikigâk answered, Tartok, in her low voice, feeling the strength of his body alongside her, seeking any shifts within him. Tension? Resistance? Acceptance? Perhaps he might not know it at all. Our way is our own. But we are a people that put one another before any other. All that we do, we do for Tartok. We are a chosen brotherhood. All that comes before, it is nothing—we kill it within ourselves, however long that might take. We earn our own place with tooth and claw. That much never ends, There was more, much more—but she was not so eloquent. Things are simple. Easy. They hunted together, killed together when they must—no petty squabbles or grievances. No ulterior motives within them but to exist, to live as wild wolves did. To protect their own, to follow their creed—to continue to build. 

What would it be like to kill with him, in battle and outside of the hunt? A curious thought, though this one not so uncommon—it was only strange to think, when he was neither Tartok nor Anneriwok. 

Her gaze fell to his scarred forelegs, respect in her own gaze, before  rumbling, You are no stranger to the fight—were these earned in service to Darukaal?