Bearclaw Valley Galant

Was that bear the same?  Ashlar tried to imagine it harming a wolf and found the image easily, only based on it's impressive size and the glint of his claws.  But his eyes had been friendly and his voice gentle.  And like wolves, perhaps they could harm and not harm?  Baba had only occasionally warned Ashlar of wolves who might harm him.  The boy grew up to be trusting, tempered mostly by Mona's watchfulness.  Mama had cautioned against strangers at least, lighting a soft wariness that was easy to alight into playful trust.

It's a song for gentle bears,  he said, thinking on the notes.  He had wanted to depict power in it too but now he thought maybe he wouldn't.  Not if she thought it would draw the attention of the bear god's anger.  I'll be careful.  He could definitely promise her to do so.  He hadn't known; if he had, perhaps he would have seen what the bear thought then of his song.  If he had sung it earlier, would it have been soothed from killing the healer?  The thought made his ears prick up, that songs might have more use than fun.  Mama had always sung to him when he was frightened and it soothed him.  Could it soothe the bear god too?

He beamed when she repeated the strain and his paws danced a bit with outright pleasure.  Yes!  He took that as the highest praise, an assurance that she liked it, especially because she seemed pleased to call the song hers.  Ashlar gave an emphatic nod, then continued the tune.  He had tried to capture in it the intensity of the hunt, the sharp edge of her focus and the joyful danger she seemed spun from.  It was hard for him to do this; he knew little of the feelings of such things himself.  The last notes were wrong.

He frowned.  No.  He tried another.  Better, but still not right.