Northstar Vale salute your solution

Tucked between the mountain peaks was a deep-seated valley, dotted with trees and water. It was midday, but the sunlight only hit it in thin steams, spindle-like spots of brightness that slipped in between the rockfaces that surrounded the Valley. It was cooler in this area than it was anywhere else, and for the thick-coated Endore, it was a welcome reprieve from the otherwise unbearable summer weather. He let out a deep sigh as the cooler temperature pervaded his fur and settled into his bones, moving slowly through the foliage.

It was a nice area, even if it had a slightly isolated feel — the mountains that rose up on every side of him made him feel as though he'd stepped into a different world entirely, although he quite liked it. As he continued on, he thought that he might call this his home, at least until he found a better offer; there were wolves all around, and although he'd been somewhat reticent in seeking them out (because he was somewhat reticent in nearly anything) he did have it in his mind to eventually join a pack. For now, though, Whim decided to settle in this cool, deep extra world tucked between the folds of the mountain range.

Her days were not terribly productive. She had yet to meet any pack wolves, but in time she would seek them out. Tonravik had no idea her intentions here yet but in time, Tartok would again come to be in another location. All who knew her mother were inspired by her; and she herself could not idle. Not any longer. She looked to another mountain this day, not limiting herself to Silvertip. If there was a better peak, she would take it.

Her long-legged stride took her to the cool heights of this place. She took her time, deciding to travel by day to grow used to the horrific heat. One day she would need to be accustomed to it, and who knew if that time would be soon? The forest upon the mountain was comforting and cooling both, and she navigated around the terrain slowly.

Whim wasn't walking long when he spotted the other wolf, not far off. It was dark in the vale due to the cover of the surrounding peaks but the wolf before him was darker still, a small ink splotch on the landscape, picking through trees as he was. He imagined her view was quite opposite — Whim himself would be an unignorable bright spot. Such was the problem in being of a family who'd made the long trek from the North. The Endores hadn't been in a more arctic clime in ages, at least not his direct relatives, and so it wasn't until winter that Whim would really be at home in the landscape.

As he continued toward the other, he realised that she wasn't a small ink splotch at all. She was rather large, in fact, his size, even. He thought that it was perhaps rude not to call out a greeting, but he was awkward enough with face-on introductions, and so swallowed down any impulse to call out — he'd only muck it up, anyway. He also thought it might be smart to change course in case she thought his continuing in her general direction was meant to be threatening (and to avoid that he checked his posture a bit, forcing himself to look relaxed and neutral) but decided against it, in case she was with a pack or in some way dangerous and saw his veering as a retreat.

Their paths would inevitably collide. Tonravik did little to avoid that; perhaps he would speak, perhaps not. Her interest in him was plenty when she saw his stature, and so it is she who pauses when they are near enough to one another. He reminds her of someone, but it is a being from a story, not a memory.

She does not think what she does is strange; the proud wolf had little to be ashamed of, if anything; but she merely observes, waits for him to come closer so she could further inspect him. She is utterly still, blending with her surroundings, but not at all hidden or discreet in what she did.

When she was near enough that he could make out her individual features — strong, sturdy, stern — she stopped, and he took a few more steps until they were in an appropriate range for conversation. When she didn't speak, however, he felt the creep of ill-ease tremble at the base of his spine and climb up. Inwardly uneasy, Whim stood in silence, but after a moment of it, he relaxed. He was rubbish at speaking, and here he was given a reprieve. He stood up a bit straighter and regarded her straight-on, tilting his head slightly to the side, though he didn't bother to ask who she was or what she wanted.

He does not speak. He seems rigid, but then at ease. It is only then Tonravik approaches, her own head held proudly aloft but her chin slightly tucked, prepared to completely press to her throat if need be. Tonravik took the others stillness as consent to explore them, and yet she pauses when parallel to him, her tail twitching slightly. Give and take. She draws slightly closer, and would only desist if he emitted a sound that would give her caution; but who was he, where did he come from, did he belong?

It was a strange interaction, that was for sure, but strangely settling to the wolf who could seldom bring himself to string together a coherent sentence. She stepped closer to him and he instinctively lifted his head a bit, shedding his neutral posture for a more dominant stance, not so much out of a desire to dominate, but to show that he would, should she do anything untoward. Instead, she seemed interested in investigating him — and odd though it all was, he found it immeasurably preferable to really painful small talk. His tail gave a little flicker and he canted his head further toward her, his eyes on her, but he issued no warning.

Tonravik was unperturbed by the other lifting their head; they were in free territory, and she was not his leader by any means. He seemed to enable her to interact with him, physically, and so she pushed her snout gently toward the area where tail met rump to learn of him. His age, where he had been, and those he had been around. None smelled familiar. He bore the body one of Tartok might have, and she had been hopeful; but perhaps not. If she felt any disappointment, there was none to be seen at all. She withdrew and drifted forward, and then stopped to turn to face him again. Words were utterly useless to her. It was clear he did not live here. Where was his pack? Her eyes darted around him, and fell to him again.

As she seemed to examine him, he stood calmly on. She didn't seem to be a threat, nor did she seem particularly malignant. Merely curious, and perhaps unusual, but then he came from a family that spun words from the air like it was the simplest of acts and he could hardly carry on a conversation without feeling a fool. As she drifted away from him, he reached out to graze her passing side with his muzzle, in affirmation or mutual greeting. She stopped before him, and he took stock of her — she was dark all over, all of her fur and her eyes, and her features were as serious and closed-off as her demeanor. He followed her eyes as they darted around him and then back to his face, as though asking a question, and he responded with the only thing he could think of to fit the shape of the silence she'd left. "I'm alone."