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

was that it?

seriously?

astara expected something better. she had hoped her initial assessment of this fur-bagged maggot was wrong; that somewhere underneath his dull exterior the might of the bear pulsed, waiting to be awoken.

she pulled away from his feeble counter, placing space between them again.

pacing.

thinking.

no. no thinking.

he was a slug, sapping their valuable resources.

he was, alongside his other sibling, the eternal memento of her rook's unfaithful escapades.

worse of all, he demonstrated none of the bear in him. no instinct for survival, no grit. a useless, floppy, pathetic fur-sack that desecrated the image and might of her bear by simply existing.

a great and terrible rage grew in astara. here was the living embodiment of a slap in her face, and he would not even fight?

no thinking.

astara's head lowered as her wrath rose. she turned back around to karst, her expression blank. seemingly serene, even.

not a fur out of place to betray her intention to take his fucking head in her jaws, and splatter his brain matter across the ground that was worth more than every useless iota of his stupid fucking existence.

astara lunged for his skull in a silent bid of helpless rage.