Silvertip Mountain rock

The others response merited immediacy from Tonravik. Internally, she fought to find the right words, and it took minutes to find them. Minutes that might have been grueling to anyone else. Her behavior in this time was impeccable. Most would have lost their head, immediately. For one reason or another, Tonravik had given to the arctic stranger that which she would give no other: her life. The other was a beautiful being, carved from the glaciers of the lands from whence she came, no doubt. The striking blue of her eyes reminded Tonravik of her own mothers, but the blue of her mothers she would never meet. These she held fast to, clung to, with such ferocity that she hoped the other would avert the crisis she headed toward.

Then you know your way out, she rumbled darkly, lifting head and tail alike. Mine. The trees that whispered did so for her, as though to gently warn the northerner; their surreptitious language understood by only those who listened, and listened well. Her own voice lacked the sharp edge, did not echo that which Sigrún's voice could possess. No. It was empty. As would be the void Sigrún would find herself in were she not to heed her word. Chin tucked as she prepared to clash; she did not fear the other. She was Tartok, and Tartok was strength. It was known. Ears pivoted and thrust aggressively over her brow, but she did not snarl or growl pettily; she was the silent killer, the patient aggressor. She would paint herself upon this winter-white wolf until she was nothing but red. The trees seemed to loom over them, spectators, hungry to see one bend; but Tonravik understood the necessity of displaying power to earn respect. It was something she could feel coming, just as she could feel the storms approach.