Raven's Watch ix tulugak

The other man was watching the sky and Kigipigak need not turn his attention there to know why; the ravens were ever-present and oftentimes loud. 

Each had a call unique to themselves. In the last few hours he had listened to one which sounded like crackling ice, another that imitated the barking of a ground squirrel (though not with any great finesse), and the latest arrival: one which shrieked three times and paused between each series.

The wolves were like the ravens in some regards (certainly not in coloration, Kigipigak had mused beside the lake). They each had their own way of doing things, their own voice. It was Stjornuati's lack of a voice in Kigipigak's approach that put him on-edge.

The shine of teeth. The way the head lowered to protect the throat. Kigipigak knew these signs and welcomed them. His worry slipped away as he assumed a similar posture—not giving any time to wait between invitation and action, he swings his muzzle close to his bond-brother's face and begins the spar with a snap.

Perhaps in the coming days the ravens would learn this new song too.