Bearclaw Valley the sharks and the minnows

good.

not like this. not now. not here.

when dolce turns to walk beside him, tvar’s own posture remains steady, composed. he doesn’t bristle, doesn’t rise to meet the gruffness in the man’s tone. instead, he is quiet and intent to listen to the snow crunch softly beneath their paws. then, with a slight tilt of his head, he speaks.

tvar, he offers simply, his voice low but even, as unshaken as the mountain he’s often likened to. there’s no edge, no bite, but there’s also no warmth—not yet.

after another pause, he adds, where from do you hail? tvar keeps his pace steady, his focus forward, but his ears remain tilted slightly toward dolce.