Bearclaw Valley verbena

"you are so far from silly, ico," merrick muttered, not wanting to hear the pale little sylph say nonsense about himself. "you have come to this pack of-of-of ... fighters. killers. madmen. and you only ask our stories in return." a young scribe on a battlefield, penning an anthem to the rush of blood.
he clacked his jaws, cleared his throat.
"i want —"
a chuckle.
"when you think of the bears here, what do you hear, ico?" single eye, burning toward his companion. "do you hear them whisper?" because. "because sometimes they tell me i'm going to die, and other times, they say i'm only going to come back. so i have no idea what's beyond it."