Bearclaw Valley the great imitators

Ico had spent nigh two hours hunting down what had transpired to be a really rather poxy little rabbit. But he'd caught it, and killed it, and dropped it gently outside Astara's whelping den to further nourish the new mother and her pups. Oh it was barely a snack, but it was the best Ico could do. So hopefully they'd be nourished well enough by the good intentions of the offering.

Then the ivory youth padded back down to the river for a drink as dusk began to fall, his head full of puppy-thoughts. Ico hadn't yet set eyes upon the little ones, but their very existence blazed with promise. Compelled to speak his thoughts aloud, Ico mused that the youngest lives always began with the oldest words: Once upon a time...

To say that she was concerned about the state of the pups was an understatement. She had little loyalty to the wolves of this pack, having scarcely met all of them, but pups were a different matter. They never meant to harm anyone, their only crime was being born. She had no knowledge of the story behind the silent woman's brood, or whether Merrick had actually fathered them, but his little outburst so soon after their birth had disquieted her. She lingered around Astara's den, delivering food when she could, but overall protecting, suspicious of the wolves that were her packmates.

She had to take breaks though, from her lonely vigil. She pulled herself towards the river that fed the Valley and found that she was not alone. A soft voice spoke those universal and timeless words that always meant the same thing. She stepped towards him. Go on then, lad, Orson urged on the pale wolf, curious to hear what story he had gnawing at his brain.

Ico should not have been surprised to encounter another wolf so soon, for Ursus was growing fast. But he'd been lost in his own thoughts, so slightly startled at the cool, curious voice that met him. Here stood a tall, strong wolf with a pleasant accent, and Ico paused a beat before deciding to be socially brave and indulge her.

... A litter of puppies emerged into a strange, wild world. He didn't yet know how many. Born into a pack with a tangible connection to bearkind, their elders would call the children Bearberries. But their first chapter was not truly about them but about their parents: the witch-boy who draws his own path, and the silent warrior who thrives in the shadows. All I know about them stems from before their days as parents...

He shifted a little awkwardly, allowing a pause for interruption; for he hadn't forgotten that he had an audience, and that said audience was a stranger. Perchance he was making a fool of himself.

Quick post to keep this going!

She laid down, surprised to hear that the story was familiar. The birth of the children baptized in a dog's blood, nearly torn asunder by their father's(?) jaws. Go on, she prompted again, wondering what he would spin from reality.

Ico sat down, a slight smile expressing his grattitude for his kind audience of one. He was keen to learn more about this tall stranger, but first things first — he had a yarn to weave.

The mother was a force like no other. The first time I saw her up close was in battle... she came to my aid when I was threatened by a trespasser. Though it was not for me that she drew blood, but for her mate, and thus, perhaps, for the Bearberries she'd one day deliver.

When the time came for her to bear children, some thought she'd make a strange or even dangerous parent... but it was clear all along that a powerful, instinctive protectiveness runs in her blood. Sure enough, Ico believed* that those puppies would come to no harm with Astara on their team.

*Unfortunately, belief is not fact.

She knew little of the silent woman before she had seen the fruits of her labor. Other than seeing her every once and a while, there was nothing about her that Orson could pin down in terms of her being. She was astounded to hear that the young man admired her — from a battle no less. She'd have to ask about it after the story. She remained in a sort of rapture, the kind that one goes into as a story is told, her eyes fixed on the young man's face.

The father was an enduring physical force too — wild, instinctive, and some say imbued with the spirit of a Valley bear, and thus bristling with more power than most who roam this Earth. It was on his connection to bear-kind and the spiritual world that he based his new pack.

The two midnight warriors were so different, at least to my eye. He, a talker, a leader, ambitious and inspired. She, a mute, a watcher, keenly alert and tied to the present. They say opposites can make a successful pair, and I'm compelled to agree. For now we have the Bearberries, healthy younglings full of promise and hope. Who they will come to resemble in heart and soul remains to be seen. Perhaps both... perhaps neither.

And a strange, buried part of Ico believed, as he said it, that neither might be best.

But so loathe was he to explore this unexpected inkling, that he shook himself out of it and focussed his attentions on the strong femme before him. You know, you are very kind to listen to my ramblings, Ico said with a sheepish smile, breaking out of his storytelling voice for the first time, now a little timid.

It was as he spoke that she realized more and more how little she knew about her leaders. She was drawn in by the boy's description of them both, how he clearly saw their contrasts and named them as such. For all her talkativeness, she had never been a great storyteller. Or at least not as eloquent as he. Ah, well...ye spin a good yarn. She smiled at him as he finished. What's yer name lad? 'm Orson,

Thank you, he breathed gratefully, with a touch of relief. A part of him was concerned he'd be laughed at for the earnestness and spontaneity of his tale, and although he didn't hugely mind being laughed at, the story was grounded in history that was important to this pack. So Orson's respect for it was a boon.

My name's Ico, he responded with a light smile and a shyly playful flicker of his tailtip. You have a marvelous accent, I have to say. May I ask where you're from?

I really mean it. she said earnestly. She wondered what other stories he had developing in his brain.

Her face scrunched up as she consulted her mental map, pacing this place to what had been her birthplace. I tink east a 'ere, she mused. I've been wanderin' so much since. 'ts been a while.

Ico smiled warmly, and glanced briefly in an Easterly direction, imagining handsome mountains and pools of blue. That was the kind of realm he pictured Orson coming from.

Do you... have any wandering stories? he asked with a hopeful glint in his eye.

Hmm, Orson pondered, sifting through the years of experience she had from wandering the lengths of the continent. There's this place far east of here, called the Great Plains. It's just empty grassland fer miles and miles. There's hills an' what not, but no trees. Sometimes a bush here or there. She pictured the great expanse in her mind. An' it looks like nothin' should be living there. An' one day I was walkin' through, and me foot sinks into the ground, all the way up to my shoulder. It was some kinda hole, or summat. So I tried t'get out, y'know? But the dirt 'round it keeps slidin' in. I'm pretty much stuck. Then all of a sudden, these little rodent things — like li'l muskrats 'r somethin', start approachin' me. An' they bark! Well, it's more like a chirpin', but — there's ten or more of them, wit' their tails held high thinkin' they're tough an' gonna scare me off. An' the longer I fidget there tryin' t'get out, more and more come, 'til there's maybe fifty of 'em! By the time I get me paw out they're surroundin' me and I thinks — am I gonna get killed by a buncha rats? She laughs, thinking back to the malicious glares of the prairie dogs. They did look frightening in the heat of the moment. I high-tails it outta there soon as I was free. Never looked back. Never went back to the Plains again.

No sooner had Orson begun speaking did Ico begin to picture what she was describing, aided and abetted by her rich, earthern accent. An entire realm of grass... one that could apparently gobble you right up! Ico's instinct was to laugh in surprise, and he only did so because Orson did not seem to take the mishap too seriously; even as it went from bad to worse.

Oof! he responded with a huff of sympathy, but still smiling. Maybe the hole was the entrance to their home... have you ever seen creatures like that since?

It sounded like muskrats would serve as a fitting nemesis for Orson.

She chuckled, glad to be joined by someone else's laughter again, genuine and hearty. Seemed it, she shook her head. There were hundreds of the things around. It must have been a network of some kind. I ain't seen one far west from here. Only on those big plains, she shrugged. The land must have been better for their tunneling there since there weren't any big trees to make roots.

Ico mused on this, gazing out West as if he were able to see Orson's plains. I'll keep an eye out for them. Perhaps you can hunt them down and wreak revenge, he joked with a smile, and this was probably the darkest joke gentle Ico had ever told. He was a wholly non-violent boy, but prey was prey... even though they had made for a rather thrilling little story.

Fade out perhap? <3