Silvertip Mountain black halo

For Tonravik.
Early nightfall, not long after sunset. Near Silvertip Mountain.

Word of mouth -- whisperings on the wind, muttered suggestions from shifty-eyed strangers -- had brought him to this place. A most impressive cathedral of ice-capped desolation rose into the star-strewn heavens from the black tides of forest that lapped at its flanks. Silvertip Mountain, it was called, or so he had heard. Somehow, it seemed fitting for those of Tartok to seek such a place. Where others might find only difficulty and suffering, those of his blood found opportunity and solace. This was what it was to be Tartok.

He inhaled, scenting the soft breeze that wove its way softly through the clawed fingers of the moonlit forest. There was a lupine scent here, a strong one. One that made it abundantly clear that this land was claimed, or soon would be. Could it be her scent? He did not know, but hoped to find out shortly. Without further hesitation, the dark wolf threw up his muzzle, sending his deep, dark voice spiraling into the silence in a summoning howl that would surely reach the ears of the mistress that made her home on this sinister mountain.

She was on exceptionally high alert.

One wolf had already deliberately trespassed. Two others had skirted her borders. Each she had taken care of respectively. If there were any more, their bones would litter the outskirts of her borders. Her scent made it abundantly clear that there were wolves that were staking a claim; but she was beginning to doubt that the wolves here had any sense at all, be it because their olfactory nerves were nonfunctional or because they were mentally prepared to be put out of their misery. Perhaps that had been the case with the foolish elder. She did not know. But it was taken care of.

Tonravik moved toward the howl before it had sounded, having been so watchful. As she moves in the direction of the caller, her arched tail sways. The wolf waited. The wolf summoned. While it was evident—and would be evident to the wolf she approached—that she was not at all bothered with keeping wolves out by force, there was something to be said about approaching another that had their wits about them. Many did not know of Tartok, so perhaps that explained the wolves and their slipups. Well, they had come; it was time the world learned.

As she draws nearer, he appears in her line of sight. He is bordered by tall trees and low rocks, and she meets his eyes without trepidation (because it is she who tests, and she who is in charge). The disheveled Tonravik (who had clearly, recently, been in a few scraps) did not look any less the monster from her most recent scuffles. Perhaps she looked more the part. The Tartok woman is not aggressive in her approach, but she is dominant, licking her chops as she at last is before him, lobes flicking forward. She assesses his physical form without shame, as one would assess any soldier. Although it is not clear, she is pleased; her expression remains stony, impassive, and unimpressed. It cannot be helped; she is the mountain she lives on. More than that, if he had no desire to join, then he would know of her disappointment. And yet, her hard, dark eyes seem to round. She already knows. It is in his air, just as it is in hers. She waits.

Clarification was a necessity.

By the way, I forgot to mention in my first post that they are a pretty good distance away from the scent markings that denote Ton's borders. Once Kaniq determined where they were strongest, he would've moved safely away from them before calling for her. JUST FYI, BRO.

She was swift to come to him, and he knew without a shadow of doubt in his heart that she was Tartok. It was something in the way she carried herself, moving like liquid shadow through the night, a great black beast of a she-wolf with eyes that glittered darkly with mixed malice, curiosity, and contempt. It was something in the way her scent rode the night air, rich with the subtle hues of secretive forest wood and cold mountain stone and touched with the unmistakable undertones of wild, savage, indomitable female. It was something in the air around her, the way the silence became something deeper, darker, more foreboding as she drew near, the way the forest seemed to lean in around her, the way the mountain towered behind her with a sense of dominion -- her castle.

There was no doubt in his mind that this was who he sought.

Dark, gleaming eyes found his and stared fearlessly, challenging him, testing him. In that moment, she was the smith and he her metal; she would need to determine his worth before he could be shaped into a sword to be wielded by her hand. He, of course, did not consciously think this; it was only the vaguest of instincts that told him not to look away. He stood there, gigantic black brute facing gigantic black brute, and returned her gaze with bold defiance, fire simmering in his lurid orange eyes. His stance was not challenging or assertive in any way, but neither was it submissive or weak. A long moment of loaded silence hung suspended over them, the very stars themselves seeming to wait with shimmering anticipation to see what would happen next, before Kaniq finally broke the silence. His voice was a deep, dark baritone as he spoke: "Tartok." If she was who he was looking for, she would understand immediately. With that one word, he told her everything she needed to know about him and he asked her everything he needed to know of her.

I thought as much!! :D

He looked to her, though not directly in her eye (or else she would have surely moved to kill him, so offended and affronted would she have been; disrespect was never tolerated from strangers, though she would be more than willing to show others their place if they were Tartok); she can sense his strength, and is curious, hungry to test... but he had come here for a reason, and he speaks it. He does not waste any time. Good. xxxxxxTonravik hears the word, as she has heard many times before from others who search for their newest base. She does not nod, does not accept; and though she can sense from him that he knows of Tartok and its ways, she needed more than the name itself. Many knew of Tartok. Enemies were fearful, skulking creatures who were so low as to attempt to find one of them when they were alone. They were strong, even then, but strongest always together. She assesses him with a sweep of hungry eyes. Your former battalion, she presses then, eyes flashing. Iluliaq's battalion, of the Seahawk Valley, were the Bloodbringers. Sevendeath's—now belonging to one of her brothers—the Snapjaw. Her own would earn its name, but there were so many more battalions out there; they were all of Siku's Army. Each individual had their own branch. The hunters, the guardians, those that could have their own apothecary. So many firsts, seconds, and thirds. xxxxxxThe question asked plenty more than just that. Who was he, exactly, this strong stranger? He was handsome based on that alone. She never found women beautiful or men good looking; she judged them by their performance on the battle-field. And as she envisioned him, it was a work of art. How she wished to test him. To see him hunt, to see him take down another.

Her face, her stance, her demeanor...they betrayed nothing. She was as blank as the face of the mountain, as indifferent as the breeze that brushed carelessly past them. He understood that she would not hesitate to lay him out in a pool of his own blood if he was reckless with his words or actions. Then again, it was no different than the way things were done back home. Many wolves had gotten soft and diplomatic; not so with Tartok. If anything, those of Tartok grew harder and more savage with each new generation. So as he eyed her, he was careful to push the envelope of her tolerance only so much. He knew that, like his mother, she would appreciate strength and fearlessness -- but not foolish disrespect. He walked a fine line, but it was a line he had walked since the day of his birth.

As he observed her, it occurred to him how very much like his mother she looked. Atuun, like many of her Tartok brethren, was a huge she-wolf of staggering size draped entirely in the darkest of blacks, who gazed out upon her world with glacial-blue eyes filled with cold, calculating contempt. Tonravik's eyes were darker and more sinister, but in her physical build and coloration, she was a textbook Tartok. She was splendid, magnificent, a creature of such vicious, dangerous beauty that the mind simply could not grasp just how lethal she was.

She posed to him a simple, curt inquiry as to his previous battalion. His answer was equally terse: "Northwest. Anubivaalua." The name of his home pack meant, "sound of the wind", for the merciless winds that howled and tore through the mountain fjords when the snows came. Those of Anubivaalua were the strategists and the quiet killers, the fleet-footed mercenaries. "I am Kaniq. Son of Atuun Tartok, cousin of Siku. Mother sent me to find Tonravik and help build her clan." It was perhaps the most he had spoken in many months. "There are others. We separated. They will come."

Something in him changed, and she no longer felt the need to press into him with her fangs and demand subservience; as ever, she understood silence better than anything, and although she was not bright she could interpret that he had been displaying to her who he was. Tartok. Still, Tonravik was unyielding. Here, she was Alpha. Should he think to look within her eyes, there would be no thinking twice about attempting to remove his own from him, lovely though they were. She could appreciate the bold, but never the insubordinate. Still. It was not his intent. He was curt, respectful. And as he spoke of his origins, Tonravik understood well his behaviors. Anubivaalua. She had heard of all their bases, though the one Atuun led was a notably fierce one. Her own mother spoke of them in an incredibly high manor. She had heard stories of them as a cub. The silent and the deadly. A fitting motto. The Tartok woman could see now why he behaved as he did. He was the prince of his unit, though she was sure he was not raised as such (just as she was not raised as a princess). xxxxxx Tonravik, she introduces at last, her tone still cool. The sharp edge that had been it once before was gone. Her voice was gruff; she spoke more than her own mother, but was no more eloquent than she was, and speaking more was too generous a term for what she said when she spoke. She knew perhaps three more words than the Issumatar, the Matriarch of Tartok. xxxxxx She steps forward to greet him physically now, as though to say to Kaniq well met. The Alpha is as rough as she ever is, moving to attempt to knock into his chest gracelessly in greeting before then shifting and changing her mind in what she wanted to do next. She alters herself and furthers her attempt to keep bodily contact, moving to rub her scent into his own, claiming him again as one of Tartok's.

sorry this sucks so much omg ;_;

He understood her introduction, terse and barren though it was, and a brief nod was all he gave in acknowledgement. Though he had suspected it was her all along, with her confirmation he felt a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. He had found the one whom he sought, whom his mother had sent him to find. Now, the real work could begin -- the work of establishing the newest pocket of Tartok and spreading their supremacy and dominion through the land.

Tonravik moved then, a sudden shifting of shadows and darkness that glided toward him and pressed into him with all the force and presence of a black freight train. He felt the heat of her body against his, the energy moving between them and bringing them together as one, sealing a bond of kinship and brotherhood that would remain unbreakable until one or the other was dead. He growled softly as the bear-wolf claimed him, her scent suffusing into his coat like a stamp of ownership, and his hackles bristled involuntarily. He returned the gesture, pushing himself upon her, claiming her as his ruler and his queen.