Pungent evergreen aromas paint the air and he is pleased—sinking in to the nostalgia as it strikes him.

He picks his way along with a leisurely stride until the ridge bisects and he must choose a path. The mountains sit behind him as a watchful bulwark. Fire glints on the horizon to the northeast. Hills undulate around the epicenter that is Kigipigak, and he is unsure of where next he should journey.

The wolf is hungry and so he begins the endless cycle once more of seeking a strong scent: his head bows over the crag-heavy surface of the moraine's topography and the work begins. The repetition brings him some comfort; he imagines what it would be like to feast on the giant tuttuvak that passed by Unnuakvik every year, sighs, and puts thoughts of home from his mind.

It was in silence that he moved, effortless gait carrying him alongside the fire-furred presence that was his sister. Her assistance had been enlisted this day, his intent to find and gather the herbs and fungi that would assist him in his practice. The man's caches were abysmally small as of yet, as a ssingle mouth could only carry so much. Two mouths, however, could carry double the find, thus his chosen company. He supposed, quietly and to himself, that it was also nice to have @Valmúa around once more.

He was yards away from her, gingerly pulling the mjólkurgras from the ground by its roots, when he heard it: the footfalls of another close to them. His head lifted, his project forgotten for the moment as the star eater strode forward, ahead of his sister to place himself between her and whatever creature neared them, cursing the winds this day as they blew from behind, serving no aid to them now.

The sky grew dark and ominous as he worked but he did not see it. He tasted petrichor in the air and knew the rain would come soon without needing to track the clouds as they danced; a storm could be deadly in the wrong place and Kigipigak would have been cautious had he not trusted himself in this southern place, presuming any rain would be mild. He was not going to stop trying to find food even if the sky wept over him.

When he raised his head to check his progress he noticed that the band of fire had moved dramatically to his other side. He huffed to clear his nostrils of other scents and then started to bow and get back to work when he saw a tendril of firelight moving quickly. Beside the ember was another.

Kigipigak stopped and watched the pair come closer. He took a deep breath as they neared but found no trace of Tartok among them. These were wolves bound to one-another but not to any one place, a set of travelers, much like himself.

The ruddy one spoke and Kigipigak was attentive to the sounds, tilting his head to their strangeness.

The shoulder shove from his sibling was met with a quick pinch of teeth, the physical admonishment done and over with in the blink of an eye. His focus returned to the one opposite the pair, ears pitched forward and alert for whatever response was given to the question borne from Valmúa's mouth. Surprise was nowhere to be found on his countenance when the male's head tilted at her words; few wolves here knew their natal tongue. That one, at least.

Instead of translating in the common tongue, the gold and blonde crested male attempted another greeting, this time in the words of another Northern language. Kinauvin? A feeling fluttered in his chest, its source and cause unknown. A simple murmur of his heart muscle? Or something more?

There were many families in the north if one knew where to look and not all of them carried the same culture with them. Kigipigak's people were a territorial sort and they did not venture close to those rival tribes except for in wartime and it had been generations since the matriarch held such expansionist views.

As soon as the man switched to the other tongue Kigipigak's demeanor shifted. Kigipigak, he answered sharply. He was surprised to hear his tribe's language flow so well on a foreign tongue and at the same time, jarred by the switch, he became guarded.

You are not Tartok. He does not question them so much as state an observation. Far from home, like me? That much was obvious.

Kigipigak. The name rung familiar in the star eater's ears, though not due to recognition of the man but the language. His testing arrow had struck true and, though it was a surprise, Stjornuati did not allow his guard to drop. Much too soon for such trust, the Nordic male eyed the other carefully, noting his observation as a small frown drew his lips thin. He knew well his ancestry and prided himself on it, prided himself on knowing the language and the ways of those that had come before him.

Tartok in blood and legacy. This one is from Stormhaven Keep. Far north. Valmua, not forgotten, was indicated as well. This one's sister as well. You?

They could speak his language and that alone should have reduced his sense of uncertainy, not brought it blazing to life. The man spoke of a place he had never heard of and each of them had strange names, not those he was used to hearing at any rate.

None in his home village held such a fiery mark as the woman. Most looked like the man—and Kigipigak thought of his sisters, at first fondly and then with some consternation, incidentally flavoring his speech with a cold sort of pride: I am the son of the matriarch Sedna, of Unnuakvik.

Winter-hewn coat serrated as his mantled shoulders spiked, his tail a weighted flail hanging at his hocks. His head raised to match that of the man. I am the youngest of my tribe to earn my name. And as they held such odd ones themselves, he wondered if they were like him — or weak anneriwok like the sisters he no longer loved.

This one has not heard tell of your Unnuakvik. That did not mean it was not true, however, and indicated his acceptance of its existence with his next words. The Tartok reach is far and great. The legends of Siku the Mighty, Siku the Mother, Siku the Conquerer were great in number, and her empire had lived on past her to grow into what it was today.

The task of earning one's name was a great feat, and Stjornuati was appreciative of this, his awareness of what the statement meant flashing through his eyes. This one has earned many names. Was once Atuaserk. Ukpik. Arjatkuk. Now, this one is Stjörnuáti. Pride rose its rare and yet valiant head now, visible to the two souls that accompanied him. Earning their name was a tradition that had lived on in the lives of the Stormskýli and it was one that he would teach his ownn children as well, when he had them.

No tales of his home? He was not surprised by that initially, knowing his mother was a secretive creature who harbored strong skepticism about the world outside of Unnuakvik. The tale of Auktuk's demise would surely spring to life—perhaps it already had become a small legend within his family? Kigipigak wished it to be so.

The man spoke of all his names and then the woman also, drawing Kigipigak's attention. She turned towards him in a friendly gesture of greeting and as she went to smell him he mirrored her, lacking any caution. 

Watching the woman after, he directed his next questions her way. Do you come here for a reason? He looked expectantly upon her. To be niviaksiak?

She could have been here seeking a claim on behalf of her tribe, to set down roots and become a matriarch of her own branch. It was a commendable goal, thought Kigipigak.

His tension inched higher as his sister moved forward, watching intently as she and Kigipigak sniffed at each other; his muscles sung in preparation to launch himself across the distance should the wolf of Tartok prove a threat. The chances were small, now that they had established some kind of commonality, but Stjornuati would not take the risk all the same.

It was not the other asked the question of Valmua that Stjor finally ventured closer, extending his neck to explore the scents gathered on the dirty male. The ginger could answer the man's questions for a moment, as he was much more concerned with the information he could glean through his nose.

Should touched shoulder, dirt coming away from Kigipigak's fur to color his own, a physical sign of Stjornuati's acceptance of the male, pleased that they had discovered one of their kin in this region.

They both smelled salty and he found himself probing for more tastes, wanting to find the clean edge of ice there among the furs. Then the woman snapped and Kigipigak bristled all over. He flashed his teeth as a warning to the both of them and while it was brief the expression gave him a crude look.

As he hides his teeth away in the next instant Kigipigak huffs, his tail frisking to relieve some of the tension that the woman's behavior brought out of him. If I had wanted that I would have stayed in Unnuakvik! His voice was light.

He did not expect such fire from the sun-touched one, and laughed, thinking of how well Nauja would get along with this one. The chuckle was short-lived as it caught in his throat. Valmua was eyeing her brother and so Kigipigak looked to him as well.

If not to grow Tartok, then why?

A low laugh came from him, deep and amused at the interaction between the two of them. This was a reaction he expected from the female spun of fire, having known her long enough to know that the notion of carrying children because it was right and womanly fueled her ire in a way that few other things did. He had been on the end of her teeth many times throughout their lives, enjoying the act of needling her on purpose and occascion. Kigipigak, if he was to know them past this first meeting, would come to learn all of this.

This one and this one's family answer The Call. If hringja bid we stay here, this one will lay claim to the forest of ravens. For a moment, Stjornuati switched to Icelandic, if only to sort his thoughts so that he could translate them into the common tongue. Þegar tíminn er réttur munum við vaxa. Time must be correct. And they would not make their move before then. Whatever family they built here would be strong, in bond and body alike.

Kigipigak did not understand but he enjoyed the sound of Stjornuati's laughter. It reminded him of harbour seals barking at the setting sun. The woman seemed to be in good spirits despite the communication error.

Wait too long and the cold will come, warned the boy. Winter here would not be as harrowing though, he thought, as they were very far south now. Kigipigak found he traveled more because of this, eager to see all the green before the white came. 

The lights above only watch, they can not speak. He remarks with another chuckle, a wolf grin settling easily on his face. It stung where a recent tear sat upon his lip. If it is the raven forest you want then take it! His tail waved triumphantly for a moment at this suggestion. It was the way of their people to be strong and make their will reality, was it not?

The statement of Winter's looming was met with a stern and serious nod. They had all lived in colder regions than this and so knew the dangers of the season better than most. Only a fool would look into Winter's face and not prepare. This one knows. This one is ready. And if Stjornuati was ready, so too, would Solpallur and Valmua be ready. As if to punctuate this statement, Stjornuati shook out his fur, allowing it to fluff out and shake free the dirt and dust that had settled.

Kigipigak will help make the forest ours. Half a statement, half a question, all of it an invitiation for their fellow Northerner to join them. Livered eyes steadily watched the man, tail flicking idly behind him. Even if the man declined, Stjornuati would still be pleased with this meeting, with the discovery of one of their own.

It was likely these wolves were from further north than even himself, with the way their language had mutated to encompass sounds he had never heard before and presumably customs he had never seen. It was an exciting thought. 

The man's statement rang in the air and Kigipigak drank in a breath as he considered his options; journeying around this wild place had proven to be entertaining so far and he would like to continue, however, his people were conquerers and expansionists. It was the Tartok way to take what they wanted when they wanted it. Kigipigak knew he would be living up to his name if he agreed.

That wolf-smile grew wide. Kigipigak will help you take the raven forest, yes! For the honor of Tartok. He tried to ignore the focused manner in which Valmua watched him but it was difficult to keep himself centered upon Stjornuati, feeling the chill that those eyes left upon him. It cemented his thoughts about her too—not a niviaksiak then issumatar!

The smile of Kigipigak was mirrored on Stjornuati's muzzle, the distance between them closing as shoulder met shoulder. The motion was meant to be one of comraderie, sharing their scents with one another and, with Stjornuati's would come all the others he had lived with recently. Kigipigak is bróðir now. The rumbled words held much beneath the surface, his head butting the others gently. Kigipigak will come to the Watch soon then, set back from the coast and into mountains. The ravens will guide. A look was cast to Valmua, knowing that if his intructions were not clear, she would help him to be understood.

First one and then the other took chances to spread scent across him. It would feel wrong for a while to Kigipigak that he should carry these scents and not his mother's. He would get over it eventually. As they shared scents Kigipigak took notice of how fit their bodies were and then, catching a glimpse from the woman, his attention trailed after her as she separated from him.

Set back from the coast. Between mountain wall and sea. He would look there for a glimpse of the sun in an unlikely place, hopeful to reunite with them both. The curve of Valmua's hips would sustain him in his mind until then.

The ravens will guide, Kigipigak recited as Stjornuati also left him. The boy chuffed at the air as a farewell to them both, his tail frisking to despell new vigorous energies that had spread throughout his skin—and he turned opposite to them, seeking somewhere new to distract him until their next meeting.