Bearclaw Valley a

A child eventually did emerge, a blot of ink dripping from the shadow of the doorway out onto the light spring grass. By now, his appearances on the lawn were frequent, even though he remained a reluctant, reticent adventurer at best. The way his eyes ping-ponged between new sights and the sonar-esque rotations of his ears when presented with new sounds suggested he was no less curious nor intelligent than the average cub, but when it came to new experiences, he was often five or ten steps behind his bolder sister, cautious to a fault.

So when the little boy flopped into the grass and began rolling clumsily around to scratch an itch on his hide, only to spot a gigantic brown blob from his upside-down vantage point, it was extraordinarily uncharacteristic that he rolled onto his belly and craned his neck for a better look rather than freezing on the spot, as he might've with another wolf. Something about the colossal bear watching him was less intimidating, less threatening, even though any sane pup (or parent) would've soiled themselves.

So much so that he whacked his tail several times against the grass and lowered his head, denim blues alight with something akin to mischief.