Boartusk Heights Tenderfoot

Tenderfoot Creek Hatchery here in BC raises salmon and releases them to keep the population strong, and its where the name of this pack landmark comes from.

Tulimaq spent a few hours toiling in the woods, often returning to the same red-toned tree as a means of gathering his bearings, but it wasn't until he heard the sound of flowing water that he realized he'd been following a trail of similar-looking trees; whatever blight had caused their shift of color must have roamed through the hills. The trees had formed a jagged line through the forest and he'd followed along that line without realizing it. Silently, sullenly, he cursed at himself for being so easily manipulated. Tulimaq was tired and he was frustrated but he valued the physicality the world forced upon him, and to have that twisted against him caused a deep (almost spiritual) hurt.

Alas, he would have to find his way through the forest at some point - either to find something to eat or just to get the hell out of there. He wasn't in the mood to appreciate the beauty of the area (and it was beautiful; it was untamed and filled with dangers). The man took a few moments to gather his thoughts and then he set out again, this time heading further east, up a ridge and along an animal trail that smelled alluring (although he had never smelled pig before, and didn't know that's what he'd found).

When he finally stopped again he was breathing hard. The air had begun to thin and even the well-traveled beast would have to adjust. He would need to slow down and acclimatize rather than brute-force his way up the mountain; so he huffed a deep and brooding sigh, and went hunting for the sound of that bubbling brook. At the very least he could get a drink and cool his head.

As much as he savors the animalism of a loner's continued persistence, Natjuk finds himself at a crossroads. He has explored most of the hinterlands, a portion of the coast, and uncovered some of Great Bear Wilderness's domains. In doing so, he has crossed paths with plenty. Further yet, he has had numerous chances to assimilate.

These wildernesses are wanting. There is nothing inherently wrong with being pleasant. That is all he sees here. Benignity. And he - unable to answer that kindness with teeth.

The more he ascends this obscure zenith, the more his body aches in such exquisite fashion. Everything burns, burns, burns until exhaustion hits him. He crumples in a satisfied, panting heap. Spit lacquers tooth and gum, messily decorating his split maw. He looks out over the dominions below him but none call to him as the mountains do.

That sound...there is a creek nearby. He'll investigate soon enough.

It takes a little bit of searching to find the flowing stream; it isn't flowing very well, which could explain it. The quieter sections don't appear to have much water to them at all, but they've frozen over in to sheets of ice. The more aggressive sections buffer at the creek's muddy sides and carve through the soil without notice of the season. The man approaches one of the patches of ice and notices it has partially cleaved free of the rest, and a segment is bobbing against the rushing water. He places a broad paw against this chunk of ice and as he places his weight upon it, the ice breaks with a pop but doesn't go far; Tulimaq withdraws for a moment and watches it, then reaches for it with his teeth — momentarily playful. As soon as the cold sets in to his fangs he releases the chunk and huffs, licking at his teeth to warm them up again.

He recuperates. In doing so, he realizes: this excursion is harder than he remembers it being. The air is thin and traveling across level land has made him soft. He has ostensibly slimmed. Still tanky but prominently lean in places once interlaced with stiff muscle. How...aggravating. Moreover, being alone has done nothing positive diet-wise. While that is to be expected, Natjuk is still disappointed.

The days grow colder, the snow deeper, and the prey wisened. Might be a good idea to shack up with one of the packs around here. If not for permanent residence then for this stygian season. Roaming has done him no favors and it shows, much to his dismay.

Rested, he returns to his jaunt up the mountain, following the sound of trickling water. He comes upon a rivulet that is not yet frozen. Here, the water runs clear. Natjuk invites himself, muddying his front legs in the process. He surveys further up the brook. The ice grows more condensed, forming a patchwork of white. Some pieces have slipped free, either drifting downstream or snagging on debris.

Movement gives him pause. There's someone further up a-ways. Natjuk approaches without preamble, slowing to a stop on the other side of the stream directly across from the wolf. He hungrily breathes in the air, testing it as one would prey. It would take several lunges to close the distance between them. Still, Natjuk will not come closer without acquiescence, his bearing tired but interested.

Tulimaq reacts to the chunk of ice in the manner of a groggy bear woken from its hibernation; he's slow and cumbersome, reaching for the sheet of ice again and gouging it with his fangs as he pulls it free from the water. It slides out of the way and then he releases it, letting it tumble against the creek edge where it splits in half. The water freely pours from beneath the ice and the segment of the creek he is perched beside picks up speed.

He notices the wolf next. Just beyond the glimmering of the water's icy surface comes a narrow shape, and he glances at it - noticing the dappled gold of the stranger's coat, the sharpness to their slender figure, and his hackles lift presumptuously. Tulimaq has not claimed the mountain outright but he feels a certain connection to it. His more feral roots have begun to show, and as he studies the stranger from across the flowing creek his dull gaze locks upon their bright one with a silent challenge — or a warning, take your pick.

Much to his surprise and glee, this one did not take his advances well. Natjuk is not sure what ticked the brute off but quickly finds how little he cares. Months worth of mounting frustration has led to this moment. Invested in this antagonistic display, Natjuk returns unkindness with his own, visibly prickling. While the other saw fit to stare, he incites with a snarl. Come on then.

The wild creature on the other side of the creek wasn't going to budge, and even snarled at him. Had this been any other moment Tulimaq would've been amused more than anything - but for some basic, deep-rooted reason that eluded him, he felt agitation stirring in the pit of his belly. If the creek hadn't been in the way, he would've probably lunged through it. Instead, he bristled further and let a deep rumble overwhelm the air, risen from his chest, while he glared and paced along the water's edge, tail flagged high.

As soon as he saw the other's banner, Natjuk readily considers tearing across the stream. He lifts one paw and settles it upon the ice. It disintegrates pathetically beneath his weight, prompting retreat. Well...shit. It might support him in the middle. The problem is getting there and staying above the ice.

Watching him sourly, Natjuk behaves without thought, raking his claws through claylike earth, sending pebbles and whatever happens to be swept up behind him. An indisputable act, claiming the very space he stood upon. He stops quickly enough, finding the impulse fading as soon as it arose. He has no interest in claiming this place though it is much to his liking, with its bowed spires resembling tusks. Sadly, he has no following. Even if he did, he is not sure he would make for a good leader, often preoccupied by past events and the dour sentiments correlated to them.

There is a heat that courses like a raging river for an outlet just beneath his winter coat. Natjuk, however, cannot see any reason in opposing the wolf across the creek. To let off some steam at the cost of bloodying himself? Most ill-advised. This pissing match is engaging even though nothing has come of it. Yet. What should he do? Fight him, goad him further, or leave? Natjuk becomes inert, baleful golden eyes locked on his rival.

So far the warrior had not found too much difficulty in colonizing the mountain for himself; he claimed it as soon as he set foot upon it, although at the time Tulimaq had not been aware. It took a conversation with a stranger to ignite the idea within him — and now he was fully invested in the concept of owning this mountain, with its winding paths and dangerous peaks. He would master it, and those that came after him would become a part of his legacy.

This stranger was only slightly different from Tusk. They were swarthy and wild, carrying an untamed quality that Tulimaq found appealing despite their smaller size and willowy build; but the stranger contested his claim, either blatantly or because they wanted to play a dangerous game with him, and Tulimaq soon lost patience with it. The scrape of dirt by the stranger's paws brought a ripple through Tulimaq's entire body - his face turning in to a grimace, his tail standing stiffly, and yet he did not charge across the creek after them, much as he wanted to. He would not give in to this behavior, nor forgive it, but showed his irritation as a final warning — back off he was saying.

If the stranger did not submit, then maybe Tulimaq's arrogant anger would finally get the better of him.

Good thread.

The stranger reacts predictably, tautness undulating across his body like the expected crack of a whip. Natjuk wants to reply but his motivation is wanting, practically evaporating beholding the beast beyond the glacial stream.

It is not cowardice that stops him from snapping back, just disinterest. While it is sensible to have a healthy dose of fear, Natjuk harbors none. Not in the face of teeth, or bone-chilling cold, and certainly not another wolf. And that will be his end if he doesn't wisen up.

With a parting leer, Natjuk turns on him. As reserved as he came, he passes into the shaded bramble and begins his descent down Boartusk Heights. There is nothing for him here...but there could have been.