The Floodlands Old dreams

He was glad to see the water expelling itself from his body; at least he didn't have to do the Heimlick on the child. The boy's fear didn't surprise him in the slightest, for all wolflings were taught to fear bears. It was a natural response, and Tupilek ignored it as he tried to fluff the wolfling's coat up.

Tupilek paused in his licking, grunting softly. Vassago. I suppose that is your name. Very well, Vassago, you may call me Tupilek. He wondered if the name was too complicated for the boy. He had many more names, each more difficult to pronounce than the last. But he shrugged; the boy, Vassago, would call him what he wanted.

His short-sighted gaze turned towards the island from which the boy pointed his paw, trembling. At least you are not far. He grumbled. Tupilek stood on all four paws, looking down at the little chestnut who called himself Vassago. Can you walk, Vassago? If not, my back might be a better solution. With his tiny weight, he would be but a small burden to Tupilek's creaking limbs.