Bearclaw Valley a thing can be true and still be desperate folly

The crow was bewildered by the state of the pallid female. While it may have been considered impolite, he peered at her with a careful placing of his small paws and a concerned expression that tugged on the edges of his mouth, pulling them downward. The thief was a finder – an accumulator of differences – and the girl appeared as though she had endured an arduous act of malice. The large, dark ears cupped forward as she spoke to him. Her words were strangled and saddening.
 
Something within Tadec believed that she was beautiful for it.
 
Drawing the pink of his tongue across his dark muzzle, the crow smiled at her in a shriveled fashion. His eyes burned as he took another step closer and sniffed delicately at her coat. Tadec was careful, tense in his movements, and he positioned himself to leap away if she should lash against him. The stranger spoke of torture, harm, and she mentioned that she was hungry. Then, she inquired as to whether or not he understood her. For a moment, the burn of his stare softened with uncertainty and he cast a nervous glance over his slender frame and back into the mouth of the pack.
 
“Tadec understands. This one will feed you,” he offered her with the same shriveled smile. Then, the spindly coywolf turned on his heel and raced toward the nearest cache he had created. He searched as quickly as he could for a substantial meal.