Big Salmon Lake fallen so far, like a shooting star

September 15th. 6:30 PM. Nippy temperature.

Weary and paranoid, the male slipped through the trees, slinking to the lake's edge. The jarring din of bullfrogs was a reprieve; to ease his mind of what ifs and what's that out of the corner of my eye. His journey had been a long one...with no destination in sight. He fell to the earth with a resigned groan, paws hanging over the lip into the ice cold water. A salmon brushed against his worn paw pads before darting away into deeper waters. He was far too slow to react, so he just laid his head down on his paws and let his eyes drift shut.            Sleep did not come to him easily. He dozed uncomfortably at the shadowy lake for three hours before rolling over onto his front and shaking his pelt out. He wasted no time in hovering over the yawning waters, eyes straining for a sign of movement or a flicker of opalescent fish scales. The process of successfully capturing one of those slimy bastards was pathetic, but once he got one – soaked to the bone with mud and water – he gleefully teared at it's flesh and ate. He would not stop until it was picked clean. Maybe – just maybe – he could get another before retiring for the day. After all, tomorrow would be spent searching for a suitable home, preferably one more enduring than the last.

Her mountain offered the grandest of vantage points. From below she could see herds congregate, wolves unite to hunt, and potential trespassers. She saw some come, some go. Rarely did she go to meet them.

She could not see as far as the Lake, but she departed her home with word to her subordinates so that she could scout the land out for wolves that held potential. While Tartok was being established, she could do this; otherwise, she would not go far from her home at all. Why would she need to? They truly did not need more. Even with few numbers, Tartok would dominate, destroy; they knew how to take on multiple wolves at once, were trained to anticipate such a thing. And perhaps that would happen, given their current choice of camp and their forever-home. A mountain. Always a mountain.

Tonravik had fed well prior to leaving, so she was in good spirits and health alike as she departed her home. It took a while for her to come to this place, but when she arrived, she did so in time for a show. It was the way the beast consumed that intrigued her. The display was one that she enjoyed. Not a wasteful being. Shamelessly, she moves nearer, her eyes upon him, eating him up as he would his prey.

Paranoia struck yet again, but this time, it had justification. He had only just detected her, his need for sustenance great. It blunted attentiveness. Such was the ventures of a rogue. Nevertheless, Vehiron did not fear for his life in this fleeting moment of weakness. If the beholder attacked, then so be it. He would try his hardest in killing them with as few traumas as possible.            ...These thoughts, while a tad over the top, were put to rest as the woman made her entrance. She did not move daintily, no. Rather, she moved with purpose, not weighed down by anything other than common sense. Perhaps she was a woman who cared not for first impressions, be they positive or otherwise. He hoped so; he so reveled baser company, as they were painless to figure out.             Vehiron finished up with a loud smacking of his lips, the bones at his feet pristine beneath the dying ambiance of dusk. He rose, and met her hardihood in a similar style. Alert, he looked her over just as she did him, taking in all that she had to offer. She was quite...hefty. There was hardly any finesse in her physique, nor in the lines of her visage, and yet, she was definitely a female.             Habitually, he made the motion to speak, but the words expired on his tongue. His blue-plum eyes met her earthen ones, and he made a snap decision to let the bullfrog refrain fill the silence between them. In place of words, he beckoned her to the lake's edge, where salmon flitted about in an annoyingly carefree manner. He gave her a look, as if to inquire: can you catch one?

His query, asked so perfectly with the tilt of his head, the glint in his eye, was met with a heavy snort. It had been a while since she had fished in these types of waters, but surely not too long—the compact woman drifts forward, keeping her distance, and does not hang over the water so as to alert the fish of her presence. For minutes, she simply stares. Her eyes are concentrated, but it is clear she is in the present moment, ears perked and trained to hear movement from him.

She is a statue, and it does not look like she can be moved; her stillness is challenged only by the rocks around them, and even they shift as the water pressures it. When it seems as though she might never move, she lurches forward, snapping her jaws in the water and blowing roughly through her nose.

And when she turns, she is victorious but not smiling. Can I fish. Her mother had trained her to fish in every source of water. Had sent her off to find an ocean to perfect the craft. When one was unchallenged by waves, fishing seemed quite simple. But it never really was. She drifts to the side, places it down, and begins to rip at the fish slowly. It is not her favorite meal, but it sates her appetite; that is enough.

Her reply – while somewhat supercilious – caused his lips to twitch. A smile tried so desperately to break out across his mug, but it was only seen in his ethereal gaze. He was amused by her haughty retort, if only for a second. She moved toward the active waters, not hovering over the water like he was. Vehiron observed, and took note of everything that took place, from her curved spine of readiness to the liquid she forced from her naris.            He watched her begin tearing at the fish, whilst his attention went back to the water's rippling surface. She showed him all he required, and now, he was avid to put his acquisition to the test. Vehiron derived everything she just did; her very stillness, to the victorious capture. He accidentally breathed in some water, but he expelled most of it out in a deafening, moist-sounding snort.             With his prize in his jowls, he looked to Tonravik and slowly wagged his tail, happy to share in his prosperity. Then, he went about devouring it, careful not to ingest the small bones. Once finished, his eyes returned to the sooty enigma. Vehiron cautiously drew closer, stopping only when she showed signs of irritation. He sniffed at her, nose twitching away as his mind acknowledged her for who she was: a leader.             “You are...Who are you?” He had a sneaking suspicion of her true identity, but...well, Siku did not exactly take one mate for life.

NOW U GOT ME CURIOUS

She eats even while she watches him. Tonravik is impressed that he has learned so swiftly, and furthermore that he was able to act upon it. As a cub, she had made many errors. The reprimands given had been more than enough inspiration to not make those errors again, lest risk humiliation and bruises alike. She preferred neither, and so the perfectionist perfected her crafts.

As he approaches, she lifts her head and gives him a stony look. No. She did not appreciate the other coming nearer, not without her true consent. He regards her and Tonravik does not remove her eyes from him. She did not care to know what he thought; she only cared that he remained obedient to her whim that he keep his distance.

But then the stranger speaks. She does not note the inkling he has to her identity, but her ears swivel atop her head as she licks her chops in displeasure. And so Tonravik blinks, waiting for him to draw the conclusion he would. He had begun a sentence before he finished with a question. Could he know? She reflects, idly, and then observes again, waiting for him to say what he truly must be thinking, hoping that he might.

Vehiron basked in testing the waters, but given the circumstances, he was in no condition to challenge her. Knowing this, he kept his distance and connected the dots all on his own. The fact that she was so goddamn authoritarian, it was a dead giveaway. He felt so stupid for not realizing it sooner.             “You're one of Siku's.” It was a statement, one of sureness and recognition. He knew of the blood flowing through her veins, and he, in his zeal, was ready to test her. If only because he wanted to see how she'd fair in a fight in relation to that of Siku's combative abilities. But, again: circumstances. It would not be a fair scrap, of that he was sure.             “See this scar?” He moved his cranium to showcase the fully healed wound. It was so bright against his darkness, like a crack in porcelain. “Courtesy of one of Siku's suitors.” That boorish woman – she did not much like advances out of season, but that was not the reason she marred him. “I fought for your mother's conjugation, and I lost.” A darkness befell him; gloomy, defeated. He lost himself for a moment, coming back to the here and now with a less exuberant air.             “Tch. I'm just a man with a taste for big women.” He mused out loud, shaking his head. “...And before you presume, I departed with Siku's blessing, if only because she knows Tartok is all I can be.” A growl rumbled within his chest. The truth, it angered him. How Siku knew him far better than he'd ever known himself.

She listens to his story, interested from the get-go. One of Siku's. Order did not matter; nor did it matter that she was the first-born of the Matriarch of Tartok. Siku did not boast her cubs. She raised them alongside Tartok, she taught them (and taught them exceptionally well), and then she chased them off into the proverbial sunset when they were of the right age. Even through their achievements, none could truly know who Siku's true-born cubs were. All of the wolves of Tartok were her sons, her daughters, her sisters, her brothers; and when they did prove their worth, they were given this chance. Tonravik did not have her position because she was her mothers daughter. She had it because she fought for it, tooth and claw; she had it because she was a woman who was as meant for leadership as her mother. She aspired to be as great as her, and although she had not led a pack at the age of one as her mother had when she had chased off her younger sister, Tonravik had learned what it was to be a leader. Not even her mother had been given that.

So, perhaps she was destined for more.

Tonravik looks at his scar, taking a step nearer. She cannot help herself; the allure of a battlewound outweighed her desire to steer clear of him. At his words, her brown eyes lift. He had lost a fight to mate with her mother, and to become her mate. Siku did, in fact, mate for life; she imagined she would still be with her father had he not passed, because the man had been her mate for a reason. Much like the dark wolf who was beside her mother now, evidently; the dual-eyed stranger had lost. Tonravik imagined he was more than capable in battle. But there was a reason her mothers mate was her mate; she had chosen well, she supposed.

At his next set of words, Tonravik did not so much as smile.

But ah, as she hears him finish, that Tartok was all he could be, Tonravik takes another step forward. I am Tonravik. She did not acknowledge that he had been correct; she did not use her mothers name as a ladder to climb with. She was her own woman, and a woman with plenty of merit. Prove to me that you are Tartok. she demands, in whatever way you will. She prepares, physically and mentally; but perhaps he would speak, find another way. In heart, in soul.

If something doesn't make sense, can you please PM me? I have not role played very many fights, to be honest. ;_;

Tonravik's curiosity was enough to keep him prattling on and on about something past and done, but what was the point? He would only feel the letdown course through him like a tempestuous river. Perhaps the Tartok woman saw that? And yet she did not back away in his bout of resignation, drawing closer to canvass his blemishes. In the same way she did, he gave her a obdurate glower. Courtesy is what had kept him at a distance, and yet such constructs were lost upon Tonravik, it seems. Or maybe she just did not care, viewing him as someone nonthreatening.             Such presumptions were best left to rot.             At her introduction (and the dwindling proximity betwixt them), his ears twitched and his guard hairs spiked. She lured him, and he was oh-so anxious to bite down on the offer, statistics be damned. Yes, he was bushed, his muscles ached with the buildup of lactic acid...but he was a pertinacious son-of-a-bitch. More importantly, he felt that actions were more prestigious than speech right now. For was that not Tartok's most conspicuous attribute? ...No, it was not, but he could guarantee that it was in Tartok's top ten.            “And I am Vehiron,” he said in passing, rolling his shoulders and stretching his limbs. He prepared himself, cupping his ears against his skull and guarding his throat, raising his hackles and widening his legs. No inelasticity lied in his stance. Only calm, of someone who was so used to this precaution. The only warning he gave her was a snarl, and he was off, propelling himself at her. It only took one bound to reach her where she resided, his jowls spread wide as he made movement to latch onto her left forearm...before extending and curving his neck to latch onto the skin on the side of her neck.

SAME cos i just flat out suck @ it as im sure u have now noticeD

Tonravik often gave way to her impulses. It brought her many victories, but half the cause of that victory was the impulse itself that provoked a reaction. She was wary of Vehiron; she would not underestimate him. Should he snap, she would do so in kind (a true bully of a wolf, Tonravik) but let off; this was not her land, and she would remember that she preferred space anyway, when it came to strangers. xxxxxxOf course, by then, Tonravik knew she would test him one way or the other; and he reacted as she had hoped, as any wolf of Tartok might to prove their merit, their name (or the one they aspired to achieve). Tonravik noted his defenses, looking for any one that wasn't set as her eyes narrowed into protective slits. She spreads her weight to all fours, so that it is equally distributed and not at all favoring one portion of her; and her jaw parts, only slightly, to protect what her lowering chin cannot (it brushes against her throat, then). Her own ears melt to her head, not in a submissive manner but to protect them from searching teeth; she did not know if he was the desperate sort, the kind that latched onto anything he could grab. If he was Tartok, she doubted it; he would know better than to draw blood with the intent for her to bleed (she thought this with definitiveness, as he knew her own mother personally). Her shoulders roll forward so that any excess fat she harbors protects her nape, and as he forewarns her with a snarl, she too is moving. xxxxxxxTonravik attempts to keep herself square with him, face-to-face; she does not have speed on her side, given her hefty weight; but it was no burden to bear when she knew how to use it. His attack is quick, and so as he lowers himself to her left forearm she attempts to withdraw it (and perhaps this is only successful because of his true intent). As he moves for the left side of her throat, Tonravik seizes the opportunity to lash out with the lifted left foreleg, to attempt to hook it around his right (hock area, of his front foreleg) and pull, even as her head turns and her rear-legs shift to accommodate her changing position, shuffling to her own right. Instead of meeting her neck, his jaw clashes with her own, parted wide to protect the exposed areas of her face. She thrusts her own weight forward in attempt to knock him truly off his feet, unsure if she had captured him with her foreleg or not, or even if his balance had been compromised by that at all; but the leg, after shoving the weight of her body forward, attempts to meet the ground again in preparation to assail him again. xxxxxxxThe bear reveled in these moments, these fights; she learned from others, of their defenses, and their offensive ways. Tonravik was something of a beserker when she fought, in that she was inescapable. She would attack, again and again and again. Speak!

With a character like Siku/Tonravik, I think you're lying a bit, Steph. ;D This post sucks and I'm sorry because of it. If anything's unclear, please PM me!

He had no grand designs of maiming her. A little bloodshed would not kill either of them though, as he was positive Tonravik was used to having her flesh so rudely pillaged and contused. He could only ideate what she endured beneath Mother Bear (AKA Siku). Vehiron knew that Siku was not particularly...tender with her children, but he understood why; she wanted them to prosper, to take everything thrown at them in stride. Life was barbarous and unforgiving, so they had to harden their hearts as well as their skin. It was what all parents wanted, no? Everyone just went about it differently.            The Tartok woman was successful in “grasping” his arm and evading his bite, but he was quick, locking his left arm to retain balance. He knew she was going to be throwing her weight around, so he met her shove with one of his own. It took more exertion from Vehiron, but he canceled out Tonravik's force with some of his own, keeping his footing. Fighting fire with fire, as they say. As their bodies parted ways, he did not allow the proverbial dust to settle, aligning himself so that they formed a scattered “T.” He used his agility to charge after her, aiming to headbutt her gracilis oblique (midsection). To make her balance falter or knock the air from her lungs, it did not matter. He would adjust accordingly, either way.

proof is in the puddin vvvvvvv

Her leg catches his own, but he stiffens it, and so it has no effect upon him. She is still moving, and he moves toward her as well; she hopes to knock the wind out of him, and as soon as he is close she reaches— xxxxxxBut she is left found wanting, as the more agile wolf attempts to skirt away. Tonravik lurches forward again, her hind swinging around so that her midsection is no longer exposed, and neither is her vulnerable rear-end. As he comes near, Tonravik turns and lowers herself only slightly to further the momentum she would gain as she thrusts her shoulderblade toward the lowered head, hoping that given his position he would not see such a thing coming. The counter would surely bruise her own shoulder, should the attack land, but it would be worth it; and should his attack hit, she would shuffle back slightly some (not invulnerable to his own momentum, even despite her size), only to again close the distance between them (not giving him an instant to breathe) to overwhelm him; her chin lowers to hover protectively over her throat as she rushes him, hoping to surprise him as she moves in so quickly, moving to check him with the shoulder that might very well be bruised on his right side, to knock him off balance with her weight. Should that succeed, she would do the same thing again; simply knocking into him roughly, repetitively, fangs now seeking purchase on whatever part of his flesh was nearest to push downward, to get him off his feet, to dominate.

It was physically impossible to avoid the clip of her shoulder. The clash closed his upper and lower jaws unexpectedly, slicing the tip of his tongue. A trickle of blood seeped through his fangs and down his chin. A menial mishap, but he would live. Watching her plan blossom, he didn't simply stand there and take her beatings. He used his momentum from before by heading right past her. Still, he did not leave unharmed, her dentition ripping some fur from his loin. Vehiron was tired of being the only one who was beaten-up, veering around and aiming to fasten his fangs onto her croup. He was alarmingly quick as he did this, but his adroitness did not come without a price: he could feel his strength diminishing. It would not be much longer before he collapsed. Whether it was from Tonravik or his own debilitation was yet to be seen.

She could feel the contact. It was minimal, but that would prevent her own bruising. His momentum enabled him to move away; she had been thoughtless, allowing his escape in the heat of the moment instead of acting the tactician as she ought to have. Still, as he moved past, her closing fangs did briefly brush and scrape the furs of his loin. That was minor. There was no grip, no anything; and as she turned to keep his rear-end in sight, he moved for her again. As his fangs sought purchase on her croup, his fangs instead landed upon her point of rump due to her shifting. His grip was a superficial one at best, but she did not think that way, disappointed that he had landed a hit at all.

She has been curling her spine, and so they are in a near-perfect circle as she attempts to get her own rear away from him as she moves to attempt to crash into his rear to knock him off balance whilst simultaneously swiping at a leg at his (left) hock and attempting to keep her own rump away from the vicinity of his snapping fangs, hoping to gain the advantage by way of attacking from behind. From the front, he seemed able enough to handle her. He had been taught well. She had no doubt that he was truly Tartok, but the test continued.

jfc veh stop being such a butt and admit u lost

He finally got a hold of her, his fangs on the brink of slipping into skin. He did not allow it, even though the urge was great; out of respect, not because it was Tartok's ways. Tonravik has proven herself in his eyes, but she had yet to dominate him – throw him to the ground and show him who's boss. It was this fact that kept him on his feet. Vehiron was running on fumes by this point, so it was only a matter of time before he fouled up.            He had not quite expected it to be so soon, however. One of his limbs tangled with Tonravik's, and that alone caused him to stumble. Once Tonravik butted him with her shoulder, his balance was lost and he crashed to the ground. Luckily, he had managed to relinquish his hold on her, but at what cost? He rolled away from her, coming to lie on his back with heaving breathes and a half-crazed look in his eye. His limbs were ready to grasp and disembowel if Tonravik was foolish enough to dominate him in the most rudimentary of ways. Even on his back, he was a wolf to be reckoned with. He growled and snapped at his opponent, saying, “I will not submit to you!” in a flagrant display of unbroken delirium and adrenaline.