Bearclaw Valley Warm for the winter

tvar hums softly, the sound low and thoughtful as his gaze shifts away again, catching briefly on the snow-laden treetops. he’s quiet for a moment, considering her question. not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he doesn’t often voice it.

the north, he begins simply, his words steady but carrying a weight beneath their simplicity. he doesn’t look at her immediately, his blue eyes still fixed somewhere in the distance, as if picturing a place long gone. a cold land. harsher than here. endless snow and mountains that scrape the sky. my family’s land.

his gaze returns to her now, sharp but not unkind, as if testing the waters of her curiosity. we lived as most do—hunters, guardians. my father was a proud man. strict, but fair. my mother... she was our strength. kept us together, even when the winters bit deep. there’s a faint flicker of something in his eyes, perhaps longing, perhaps something darker, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears.

but that was a long time ago, he huffs. his legs resettle as he shifts upon his large weight, eager to quickly change subjects. tvar isn't keen on talking about himself. and you? where did you come from?