Silvertip Mountain paradise

Tonravik had noted his age by scent. But wolves learned to hunt at eight, and she had partaken in a multitude of hunts before she was even a yearling. Imagining he was capable could be her downfall; but then, he would learn. That was the way of things. His name reaches her, a token, of something. She is given pause for a moment, her head lowering as her brown eyes linger upon him. It is then she notes the youth on his face, but it is hardly there. He had seen plenty. Tonravik, she responds, her voice as chilled as the winter winds. Tonravik, her other given name, aside from Sisamat, four. Fourthborn. It meant nothing. She trumped her brothers time and time again. She held more intellect than her simple (yet undeniably powerful) mother; yet, she was no more eloquent than she was. She had lived among beings who used their mouth due to the fang within it rather than the tongue.

And so he would follow her, and she would accept, leading the way; their very beginning. Tonravik was not maternal, but the woman held leadership qualities that answered to him then. She begins to move, following the wind, leading him toward a herd. Tufts of their quarries fur could be seen upon the trees that they rested in. The critters were close.