Silver Moraine [m] I a[m] the edge of the blade,

Tikigâk was articulate in the way of the wolf and the wilderness alone—so too was the man before her. No uncertainty, no fear, no trepidation. Each step toward her a commitment to something older than the two of them—something she had perhaps known the moment they first had ran together, shoulder to shoulder, ear to ear. 

She heard him, saw him. His choice made, too. 

One another. 

He circled loosely, and she sprang away. Tikigâk knew enough of The Moraine to use it to her advantage, but they two were so similar in stature that, when it came to speed and evading him fully, that was all that could perhaps be counted on. It was good that this was not her goal—strange that she wished to be caught. But not there, no—she would lead him to that very place.

The flex of her hindquarters sent her forth in a propulsion of her strength, gouges in the earth left in her wake as she had carved into the snow there. It was not far, but it was only just the beginning. This would be a long week of hunts, of killing together, of being hunted—of seeing and knowing and learning the strengths they two carried. 

She made no misstep, each move self-assured and strong as she raced against the time she had until he was with her, in spite of the obstacles he surely would mow down—the fire in her own veins demanding she stop to encounter the licking bite of his own.