The early afternoon was partially cloudy and a little warmer than the past couple of days had been, giving him a small twinge of hope that Spring was not too far off. He had been born on the coldest day in the blackest night in the dead middle of winter and he hated Winter, having gotten his fair share of it’s barren landscape as if the land had been touched by death itself and icy touch. Spring was supposed to represent resurrection so the land could resurrect itself any day now, the world could warm up and would hear no complaint from Strato. His wandering brought him closer to borders, their scent like a neon sign warning him that he was coming upon them being carried on the soft breeze that blew, tousling silky, charcoal colored fur, dusted lightly with cinnamon and rust colored guard hairs in it’s reach as it skimmed along the strong curve of his spine. Muzzle lifted to sniff lightly at the air, his steps ceasing when he was a respectful distance from them. He had many options when it came down to packs he’d heard from a kindly loner who had yearned to share his knowledge with the vulgar, but bluntly and cruelly honest (which the elder had told him point blank was his only redeeming quality to him) teenager, but it was from the rough synopsis’ of the packs that Strato had arranged them into a mental list starting with the ones that sounded the most promising to suit him, down. He had headed in the direction the old male had pointed him to Poison Path but only time would tell if he had, indeed, found the pack he sought.

After a moment or two, Strato let out a short, to the point howl, stating that he was curious about joining before letting it end. There was never any point beating around the bush and the Arrluk teen wasn’t one to play games. He had a purpose and determination would see that it was fulfilled.

The woman leader’s voice was graceful as it fell from her lips, her words spoken in a familiarity that he recognized. She required his name in a way that was not flowery or subtle. She was as blunt and as straight to the point as one who knew Strato could expect him to be. Immediately, he admired her for it. Though modesty had never been one of his strong suits, he couldn’t help his small smirk as his eyes lifted ever so slightly so he wasn’t staring at the dirt beneath her paws. It felt indefinitely rude not to look completely at her when he spoke -- likely because he often looked in others’ faces when speaking to them regardless of who they said they were -- but he stopped himself from looking at hers. While he did not wish to masquerade, to put out anything that was dishonest he also knew that he needed to be careful. That he needed to not let his attitude and his unabashed, abrasiveness cost him a potential home. If he did then everything so far would have been in vain, a waste. “Stratovarius,” His name flowed roughly off his tongue which was as smooth as his words ever were. Teeth caught the teen’s bottom lip and he worried it absently, how he might worry a bone had he had one available to him. “I like Strato, more.” He was used to communicating in the languages of the North, German and Inuit. Having never been graced with the silver-tongue of his uncle words did not come easily to him to begin with, his tongue often feeling like lead in his mouth, unwilling to move that way that the words demanded.

In such respects he was too much like Cikuq. He fell silent after giving her his name, not bothering to repeat his intentions for he did not wish to sound entirely redundant.