Nova Peak the bloodied hatchet

Sangilak yearned for the snow-capped mountains of the North. Spring was upon them now, which meant soon Summer would come and the infernal heat of it. Perhaps she ought to have remained in the further reaches of the world, where all wolves bore her stature and her temperament. But she had heard of her sisters success here from the lips of Tonravik herself. The woman and her mate had settled further out where food was bountiful. It was no wonder she had moved, but Tonravik had mentioned a fondness for a place she and her Iqniq had found. There was not much time to hear of it. Sangilak had thought it would be with Tonravik she became Tartok, but her early heat changed things. Sangilak, along with some of Tonravik's brood, were each displaced to find their own way in the world. Sangilak, who was superior among her siblings (and it was discovered to be so even with Tonravik's brood), had to move on for the second time. Her sister had separated to form her own branch, and Sangilak had ambitions to do the same... eventually. While it was true she was the most vicious of her brood, Sangilak had no ambitions to do anything but simply become Tartok. That would be her first step. That in itself would be the first mark she made.

She came to the Teekon when the moon was high and the weather was warm. The first mountain she had spotted had become the first place she would explore, only so that she would see, and know, the rest of the world from its upper reaches. Though Tartok discounted blood in the becoming of Tartok, time had passed that certain genetics had passed on through generations. Her mother had been a coastal wolf from birth until her second year, when she had moved to the mountains. Her father had been a mountaineer all of his life. Sangilak herself was built for the mountainous terrain, down to her calloused paws that did not feel the mountains rough edges biting into them.

The she-wolf carried herself with plenty of confidence, her ears perked atop her head, receptive to the noises that surrounded her. She moved, battle-ready as ever, her commanding tread slow and certain. Young, yes, but she had seen war, seen death. Sangilak had brought it, too. She was no mindless slaughterer, but a soldier to her cause, a warrior and a guardian of the people. All to earn the name. But she, as the daughter of the Issumatar, had more to prove. The name had been offered and earned, her mother knew this, she knew this; Sangilak had avenged her brother, Ataneq—the wolf and brother she had been named for—and with the help of her siblings, and elder mentors, brought an end to an old regime that had conquered only one. Siku had raged, and in the only evidence of love she would give for any of her children, sent the Anneriwok and Tartok to slaughter the offenders.

That was their Issumatar, who would slaughter many for one. The price to lay a tooth against one of their own was a hefty one to pay, when discovered, when known. It certainly did not help that the head of her elder brother had been brought to them, simply because he had been passing through. Ah. Bygones could certainly become bygones, but only when the reason for the upset had found their grave and lay within it.

Sangilak could not help but think of these thoughts as she ascended. The heavy plod of her every step would alert any that currently explored the place. Her senses told her that no pack was here, and so she had made no errors there... but her keen nose explored for other things, like the tell of another's presence. She had moved away from the places of the mountain that reeked of flame; a large portion of the place had been licked near-clean by them. Halfway up, Sangilak spotted a wide, flat ridge up ahead... and it was toward that she headed, still remaining alert all the while. When she paused, she looked unsettlingly calm as her imposing glare cast out over the realm below.

The burn of his lungs and the biting wind on his face as he moved paw-over-paw up the tiresome slope reminded him of his northern home. Prophet thought of it often, of his siblings younger and older and his imperial parents, but exploration was the call of his heart now and he would not dream of returning until he had exhausted the whole world beneath his feet. Still, he embraced the familiarity of a brisk, high wind and a chill under his toes and continued to climb ever higher up the lone mountain.

It was a strange thing, to be a mountain all alone, but Prophet couldn't fathom geology enough to question how the land had heaved to produce only one peak. Further to the east, near to his usual haunt, was a sizeable mount, and south there was a squat one, and even further beyond that, the hazy outline of a range against the sky. There were many mountains yet to explore, and one on its own was less of a task than a chain of them, so he climbed readily.

At least, he did until the fresh scent of another wolf, a female, drew his head upward. He had reached the ridge from another side at about the same time she had, and he stood on the precipice, staring across at what was an indubitable mutant. She didn't have the look of any normal wolf of his acquaintance: her shoulders were hunched like a grizzly's, her legs thick and uncomely, her ribs hidden beneath a hefty amount of muscle or fat (probably both given her size), and her face and muzzle square like a man's. He couldn't help but to imagine her fur lacked the sleek quality of his species, and instead, boasted a coarse roughness like a bear's as well.

She was intimidating to the Arctic male, that was for certain, but there was also something just ridiculous about how large and hefty she was compared with almost every other large wolf he had ever met—panther-esque, all of them, while this one looked more like a boulder— and that took the edge off his reasonable fear.

The she-wolf was a veritable tank, not made for speed or agility but made for brute and brunt force. No doubt any panther-esque wolf could escape her if given the opportunity to, but if they were to fall into her grip during battle she would be inescapable. Such tactics were learned from her mother, her father, and each of her elders. Sangilak had the opportunity to come against swifter wolves; they were frustrating, exhausting, but her life was nothing but training and utilizing that training. She was young but well-learned. With little to no days off, even during her time of traveling with her companions (who, at present, were nowhere near), Sangilak was a machine. The behemoth was truly unaware of just how unbecoming she was, with her hunched look and her sempiternal glower; her furs were surely knotted and coarse from her lack of care or thought. 

The winds were not in her favor, but there were traces now—on the ground, here and there—of another passing through. She paused long enough to lift her head to its summit, her inky nostrils quivering as she took in a heavy draught of air. There was something of note in her peripherals, and so her head turned to better get a look at what exactly it was. 

The wolves stared at one another from where they stood. Her ears were pricked and erect, one cupping backward to listen to anything that might approach or linger in that direction. Sangilak stood alert, eyes upon only him though her attentions payed mind to everything around them that might prove another danger. From where they stood she assessed him, but as he stood she could sense no weakness to him. That was the way it was; in stillness, weakness was hard to sense except in the obvious face of an open wound or the scent of blood or exhaustion. The Anneriwok licked her chops, trying to discern at the least if he wished to cause trouble or be otherwise bothersome. Perhaps he, too, was simply here to gather his bearings.

For a time, the two canines, one hulking beast and one small-to-medium Arctic wolf, stood staring at one another. In the same manner that Sangilak's ear twisted back, both of Prophet's sought the air behind him, but he wasn't too worried about being surprised by anyone else. He would be able to smell them long before he could either hear or see them, and seeing them wasn't terribly hard from this height either. She licked her hefty chops and the black-phase man mimicked, sliding his tongue along his thinner set of jowls, but eventually the staring contest got old and he rolled his shoulders.

"So," said Prophet across the distance, ever one for skipping small talk, "is staring at each other awkwardly what the cool wolves do nowadays?" Ordinarily he would approach to sniff out her age, mood, origin, basically her entire story, but he held his ground instead truly because he was afraid to get any closer than he was. There was no telling whether she really was half-bear like he suspected. He speculated briefly but the entire idea of a bear and a wolf breeding was a disgusting one that he quickly dismissed from his mind. Regardless if she was some hybrid or not, the last thing he needed was to be slapped off the ridge by a bear, let alone a wolf masquerading as one.

She stood her ground; the two looked at one another. When he made no further moves, Sangilak looked out over the horizon with one ear upon him; just as he wasn't one for small talk, she wasn't one for talking. As she looked away he spoke, and she looked back to him once more. He did not appear aggressive or hostile, and as she interpreted his words from the language she was taught as opposed to the language she had been raised speaking she frowned. Ever thick, 'cool' was not a word she much understood in the method that he used it. 

And so Sangilak looked at him, trying to understand what he meant and if he could sense her body temperature from where he stood. But she did not feel cold; she felt warm, if anything. So as not to misunderstand him, Singaluk blinked and tilted her head, silently willing him to elaborate in the gesture. Sangilak could only wish that she were cool, but the temperature up here was not detestable, and the Spring breeze made things all the more bearable for her.

Instead of responding, the bear-wolf tilted her head. Prophet understood the gesture, of course, but he wasn't one for talking to himself and while he could speak with his body, he preferred the spoken approach. Less effort that way, you see. Instead of answering her unspoken question, he stared back expectantly with the same level of rudeness he perceived in Sangilak, only to ask, "you mute or just slow?" He supposed it was possible she was slow. Bears weren't known among wolfkind for their brains, so maybe if she really was a hybrid, she had inherited her brains from the dumber of the two species.

Even whilst he was verbally teasing her, he shifted his paws and readied himself to beat a hasty retreat in case her temper proved as volatile as a bear's as well.

There was no explanation that came, and perhaps she had not expected one. The next time he spoke Sangilak but bristled, unwittingly falling into the latter of his spoken assumption: mute. Physically, though, she was slow. Mentally too, a bit, but what he had said then she understood well enough. Sangilak turned away from him again so that she could better look at her surroundings and note what was where. She did not suppose, based on the others attitude, he might humor her and inform her of what he knew of this place. 

But Sangilak did not mind to find out. If one never tried, they might never know. 

She looked back to him, and first said, I am warm, indulging his first question, and answering his second question in the same breath; both her expression and her voice were deadpan, and she continued: What do you know of these lands? Sangilak then gestured to beyond the mountain so that he could see she meant the world around them as opposed to the very place they stood upon, in which case she, the literal woman, would have posed the literal question. Being one of so few words, she was—generally—careful with the ones she selected. 

"Um," hummed Prophet when the bearish woman proclaimed that she was warm, "okay, sure." Whatever that meant. Maybe "cool" wasn't a trendy word anymore either. The ad Aquilonem could freely admit he wasn't completely up on his slang and might've missed the transition from "cool" to "warm", but assumed it meant approximately the same thing. Sangilak hadn't answered his question, but she was speaking now, which piqued his interest enough to keep him from departing just yet.

She asked about the lands and he shrugged unhelpfully. "Not much, haven't been here long. There's a pack somewhere that way," and he flung his muzzle vaguely to the east, "but I haven't discovered its territory yet." Shifting his paws in a half-hearted attempt to get more comfortable while still remaining vigilant (a difficult thing to achieve), he met the bear-wolf's gaze again and asked, "why do you want to know of it?" If his suspicions were right, it was for the same reason he wanted to know of it.

The wolf before her knew next to nothing of this place, but it was not nothing at all. Vague though it was, she could tread in that direction with at least the knowledge a territory was nearby. Sangilak herself did not attempt to grow more comfortable. She was ready to head out and find a place to hunker down for the night... but Nova Peak could still offer her more than what it had thus far. So her eyes continued to rove over the horizon and in the distance stood a great mountain range. Her eyes held fast to the horizon, as she decided it would be there she would ultimately head to. Tonravik had told her of Sawtooth Spire; Sangilak sought to see it with her own eyes, and eventually lay her own claim to it. Not yet, however. Her ambitions were not so far-reaching, and this was an eventual plan. Tonravik was a yearling when she started all this... Sangilak had other things she wished to accomplish, first.

When the other looked to her again, Sangilak did not feel the need to look back up until the point that he asked her another question. It was then she met his gaze, her perpetually dark look one not meant for him but simply her face and its steadfast expression. I am new to this place. It helped nothing to go in blind, and while she could and would if she must Sangilak did not see the harm in getting from others what they knew.

I am new. It wasn't the answer Prophet was expecting. He was expecting to be told she was doing as he was, exploring the world for the sake of seeing it, but instead she gave hardly an answer at all. The dark wolf held her gaze for a moment before rolling his shoulders, once more at a loss for words. Sangilak wasn't winning any prizes anytime soon for her talkative nature. It meant almost nothing to him, of course; in the whole wide north, he had never heard of her clan or creed, and even if she revealed it now it would not change the fact that he found her terribly dull to converse with.

"I would suggest experiencing it for yourself, then," the northern wolf said with a coy tilt of his jaw toward Sangilak. That was the only advice he had to give. He couldn't tell her anything about the wilds except that there was a pack near the northern dark woods, and even that was a stretch. He was only aware of it from secondhand knowledge rather than experience himself. Pragmatic as he was, Prophet believed completely in experiencing things for himself. "It's time I be going," he said in parting, waiting just a moment to see if his socially awkward companion had anything else to say (he doubted it) before taking his leave and heading further along the ridge to explore another part of the mountain.

The fact of the matter was that she was terribly dull; in many manners, not simply conversational. She was primitive and base, and if knowing to speak were not essential to knowing the way of the enemy and thinking like them and knowing their intent, perhaps words would never be used or carried on at all. Most of her vocabulary was not given to her from her own mother; her claim was loud without sound as well as violent; and it required little speech, except for what she would command of her family. Aggressive expansion. Unity. Strength. Who they were and most importantly, why. Not every wolf needed reminding, but the presence of the Issumatar would not have it be a question asked. Very few outside of Tartok knew of Tartok. They kept to themselves, after all, and the mortality rate of those that they had come against fluctuated at their will from few to none at all.

His suggestion was accounted for with a nod. She agreed with him, and intended to. She was on this mountain to map out what could be seen from here, and would go from there. As he shifted, Sangilak's attention was for solely him. This time she did not nod, only offered out a monotonous, yet genuine, Thank you. It was in regards to what little intelligence he provided her on this land, but it was more than she had begun with and he had been willing to give it. Sangilak dipped her head some as he moved to depart in a brief goodbye, and then she turned back to the horizon—though one ear cupped backward to listen for the sound of his gait to recede in volume the further from her he went. Prophet was perhaps the only proof that she knew the word 'thank you'; she had never any reason to say it. What had she to thank any for? Anything done for her was in response to something she had inadvertently or directly done for another, and it was all for those of her brethren. This stranger required no favor or ultimatum, and so she deemed him worthy of it.

I just realized Tartok is like fight club