Blackfeather Woods uiritsaktak

Droplets fell, and the earth seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at the touch of fresh rain. Sos too felt a sense of calm wash over him. The winds still carried on, beating against the boughs of the trees overhead and sending a flurry of fresh leaves down around their home. Rain was good, though, and it brought a promise of life with it. All things grew beneath the grey skies. While he was still far too young to know such things absolutely, Sos did not fear the creaking and moaning of the forest around him. His spirit was attached to the earth in a way that happened so rarely. The young bear was a shaman in the making, and even his spirit sang with the cries of the earth. All was well, and so he remained focused on the pallid form of his uncle.

Siarut sat attentively at the mouth of the family den. The large white male carried a serious countenance himself, as though he had worn it all his life. Sos found this an interesting thing, but not one that was easily understood. While the young bear was an intense creature at such a young age, he had imagined it was how all wolves were created to be. Tunerk and Aningan needed only to find their spirit in the wilds to know it for themselves, he had thought. Still, Siarut was how he imagined all wild beasts were intended; primal and fierce with the sharp jutting muscles of a trying world.

“Strong,” the child spoke softly to the other male. The tongue of his family seemed to roll from his lips with ease, and he did not bat a lash at his uncle after it had been said. Siarut was strong, he knew, but Sos would be stronger.