Bearclaw Valley What good to be a god myself, unless things can touch your heart?

The click of teeth, hot breath on his cheek. He jumps in his skin and with her prompting tries to raise his head. By now his tail is still and the rest of him feels like pressed clay; hard-packed and ready to crumble at the slightest touch.

She searches for her bear in him, and maybe there are similarities to be gleaned, but Karst is hardly ursine now; he shivers and wants to curl up, but does not, feeling more fear for these eyes and these teeth than anything else he's come across.