Silvertip Mountain paradise

There was a sound, and perked audits swiveled as her head turned and her nostrils flared. He had been downwind, she imagined. That must have been how she had missed him! Her wrinkled muzzle was quick to smooth out, and she wondered at his desire for company. But, being solitary for so long, she could not deny him. Wolves were meant for pack, and for a few hours, he could be hers.

And so she grunted her acceptance, gesturing toward her side. His presence could be useful. She could bring down something larger than the emaciated child of a doe; perhaps even a doe itself. She was used to bison that lingered on the mountains, that she hunted with pack. But those beasts she had yet to find. Still, she craved.

Tonravik shifts her weight, calloused paws caressing the ground in a near-tender gesture, if ever there were one from her. She was as rough as her mother, and had all of her potential. Still, by this age, her mother had begun a legacy. Tonravik did not know where to begin! The instinct was there, but it was pushed away. She did not know she fought it.