Bearclaw Valley is as it is named: a place of deep and primal landmarks cupped in the shape of a bear’s paw. Hightoothed mountains guard the place entire, with a singular entrance to the west. The highguard of a sentinel stone is sure to be helmed by watchful eyes, even if the watcher remains unseen in the indigo shadows. Primordial forests hung with eldritch moss swallow the sound of footfalls, the whisper of breath. A rich stream feeds the valley of Bearclaws, winding from one end to the other, watering the profusion of soft-leaf grasses which quiet the terrain.
Gentle cairns of carefully placed bones wind now with flower-vines and the spectacle of butterfly wings. A visitor passing through may shiver upon the pathway misted in cold grey-green, only to be enlivened once more by a pour of honeyed sunlight upon the fields of rich purple which once formed a meeting-place. The Valley is home also to a priestess and the bear wolf, their altars nestled in sacred peace among the growing regal family. Though their lineaged connection to the Valley remains unknown, those who rule here flourish within as if watched over by ancestral spirits.