Silver Moraine kill

Blood rite. 

Tikigâk is no stranger to others having customs—there were even some subsets of Tartok that had adopted their own. But she wonders at the mutilation of self to the point of scarring—would it not make for an easier target? Or perhaps that was the point. Her tactical mind whirred, but she heard something in his voice as he recalled those times.

His point was true—a severed ankle easily spelled death. With or without his blood rite, Tikigâk did not see the man before her as a wolf who would not use his head when put to any task.

Tikigâk listened still, turning her gaze from old wounds to the strong set of his jaw. Her eyes gleamed at his words, licking dried blood from her chops. She suffered no fool ever, warrior or not—they were not long for the world, and the trouble they caused typically outlived them. She was a patient woman in most regards, but again they two shared this in common. 

His invitation shared, considered silently. 

Darukaal. Tartok. Something there, she felt—but perhaps that was the feeling of this awakening thing within her! Tikigâk did not know the difference, not yet. 

There was a new fire lighting within her. It burned a little brighter, with him so near. 

I must search for my people. Seek me again—you will find me, when you look, Tikigâk, still led by instinct, understood without knowing the next part of this dance would be the chase. Would he come to pursue? That much was unclear—and something she, in her present mind, was entirely unaware of.

With a chuff, Tikigâk moved to set off. His face left a mark within her mind no fang had ever been able to.