Wapun Meadow Enter lightning

Beneath the watchful eye of the quarter moon, a pale she-wolf traversed a great field of flowers. Her pace was deliberate and slow, burdened by the weight of eight long years of ever-changing life and also by her lifestyle, which was to do things in her own time, as many of the Dotharan did. The scent of bison was absent and her motivation was low, for the old wolf wanted nothing more than to lay upon the peak of Kraza Dothar until she could join her late husband in the Night Lands with a proper ceremony. Alas, her stubborn heart would not cease its beating and her spirit would not relinquish its hold on her worldly body no matter how long she may have waited, so Laqikki had no choice but to keep on keeping on. It wasn't in her nature to linger, slow as she may be.

The crone's decision to leave the sacred mountain wasn't made lightly, but Laqikki had read the omens as clearly as Awazzi had. There was need of their prowess. Somehow the slightly younger crone had outpaced the white-eyed hag, but she didn't dwell on it, nor did she dwell in wait for her fellow Dosh Khaleen cohorts. Time kept moving, and with it, the wolf had to keep moving as well.

She stopped to examine a wildflower half-squashed beneath a broad but gnarled paw, and tsked in her throat. "Nomeno ui thric ferrod qumado," she snorted quietly to herself in a voice cracked with age. There were no bison here, but then why was the scent of Awazzi's wayward nephew so strong here, in this pathetic land of frilly flowers?

Was interested in having Kove here interact with one of the Dotharan wolves, so hope you don't mind me snagging this. c:

Too often did he spend his days within the confines of the valley, lounging about and doing nothing particularly exciting. He was born an adventurer, and though he possessed a home that was dear to him, he would forever be an adventurer. Such a life was not something so easily ended, and he had no desire to do that, anyways. The man actually liked being curious and finding his way around things, even if there had been occasions in the past where he'd gotten into trouble doing just that. Curiosity killed the cat, though, not the wolf, so he'd never truly give up on his past lifestyle. It was much easier to live the life of a traveler when a lone wolf, but he found he hadn't been one in quite some time now. Not truly, anyways. The had been a brief moment between when he was apart of Blackfeather and when Bearclaw was founded, but the time had not been long enough to be worth anything. Plus, he had been busy during that time, scouting out the valley and meeting with wolves who had been willing to go with him and his lover to create the pack. Even after that, becoming an alpha had prevented him, once again, from actually exploring.

Even so, Kove had been given some time to look around, and actually knew of the meadow he'd started towards. He'd been there several times already, but one more couldn't hurt, could it? It could have changed significantly with the turn of the weather, and he was interested to see what it might currently hold. His legs carried him over a familiar path, and though visiting a place you'd been before could not really count as exploring, he believed the two things to be similar, as he expected the appearance of the meadow to differ from when he'd last laid eyes on it. The journey was a quick one, what with it being so close to his home and all. The Inuit man made his way through it, passing over the small creek after awhile of moving along. Just when he was about to wrap up his little trip and head back home to his lover and pack, a foreign scent invaded the air. Curious, he followed it, only to be met with the sight of a rather old looking wolf—not that he would say that aloud, though. He'd learned the hard way when he was younger and had made the mistake of calling his mother old, that most females did not appreciate comments on their age. Her age did not cease his curiosity, however, and he pressed forward until he was within speaking distance, not bothering to move in a silent manner. The last thing he needed was to accidentally give someone a heart attack—literally.

“You are not from around here, are you?” the ghost inquired, having caught the tail-end of her words. The language was foreign, one he did not understand, nor could he place. It sounded strange to his ears, but then again, what languages didn't when they were unknown? He was sure the language his family, and many other Inuits, used did not have the most familiar sound to those who'd never heard it before.

Laqikki left the trampled flower behind. Her purpose now was to locate the khalas. She wasn't in any rush, though, so while her westward steps were deliberate, they were ponderous. Her body creaked with age and it was always her lifestyle to move at her own pace, anyway. Being a wolf, age wasn't such a hindrance, but she certainly gave the appearance of an old, twisted crone with the way she walked, her shoulders hunched deceitfully forward. It was intentional, of course. Laqikki was a former Khaleesi and warrior, not some helpless wretch who grew gnarled in her old age, but others didn't need to know that she still possessed some of her fabled strength.

She spotted Kove, a bright white male, before he spoke, but her glance to him was fleeting at best. He was unfamiliar and she could almost tell from the way he carried himself that he was no Dotharan. There was no pride in his stance. The Dotharan defied the world and took it for their own. They were an aggressive race. They were a triumphant race. Kove displayed none of that proud aggression, and therefore stood out as not of her people. Laqikki would have passed him right by without a second glance knowing that, if not for the words he spoke.

Naturally, the Dosh Khaleen crone didn't understand. She'd lived her whole life in the company of Dotharan wolves, after all. English was a luxury denied her. Still, she leveled her mahogany gaze on him anyway, and after a long moment of seeming contemplation, she spat, "shashtiup vekikar," and began walking once more.

Apologies for such a long wait with this.

The man had been expecting a conversation of some sort, but it seemed that could not come about. For when the woman spoke, not only was her tone undesirable, but the language she spoke was unlike any he'd ever heard before. His ears cupped forward, to be sure he'd heard correctly, but no matter how he approached it in his mind, the result was the same—the old wolf spoke words that were almost too strange. It made him curious of where she came from, the language that left her mouth, and just her in general. It didn't even occur to him that the language was not that strange. It only seemed that way because it was unknown to him, something he'd never even heard briefly before. For some, though, the same might be thought if he were to ever be caught speaking the tongue of his family. Languages as a whole were always strange. Something could be said a number of ways, but in the end, every pronunciation meant the same thing, more or less. All of that didn't register in his mind right away, though. He was much too preoccupied being interested by the words spoken and wondering what their meaning was—as well as silently questioning why the stranger would take on such a tone with him. They'd only just met, and while he could understand if she did not wish to be bothered, that did not make up for the way she delivered such a desire. And, so, he decided he would not leave right away, but continue to walk after her. Perhaps it was his curiosity, or maybe he was just looking to be stubborn.

“That is an interesting language,” he said, though he was already pretty sure she couldn't understand him. “Do you speak any others?” Though he had a feeling his assumption was correct, the man could not be sure. For all Kove knew, the woman could just be acting as if she spoke only one language, while secretly understanding everything he says. It was a bit far fetched, but still a possibility if one didn't think too hard about it.