There was, as they say, no rest for the wicked and though Arvid was not yet wicked - he would not rest until the seats of his High Court were filled with older canines that he could put his trust into. And if that included spending many, many hours away from home to scour Mythris for the perfect souls for Northfall, Arvid would do it.

He would ensure the very best for his father’s legacy - for the legacy of Northfall. So it was on this very cold morning that Arvid left his den and traveled down the mountain, only stopping when he caught signs of a young caribou that had been separated from its herd by some stroke of luck. He hadn’t been tailing the caribou for very long when he realized that it was leading him off the border, which was also the same direction he was planning to go anyway, but shortly after, the sounds of its demise came at the jaws of something else.

These mountains were not just the homes of wolves, and Arvid pondered the idea if another predator of sorts had slaughtered the thing. A polar? A tiger, that wasn’t Ronja? He’d heard stories of his father’s great friend, Kuhn, the tiger - and knew his friend down south, Raisa, had experience with them as well - but he’d never seen tigers this far north that wasn’t Ronja and the scents he could gather told him that the Caribou Hunter was canine, and female.

Coming through the trees, he saw her. Big, black. Tall. Taller than he was. Older, too. He approached slowly, not wanting to frighten her away, but also showing his interest in her as well. His citrus eyes lingered upon her and her caribou kill with the tilt of his head, pondering if she knew how close to the border she was.

He awaited for her to speak, sitting down with his tail coming to curl around his paws.