Bearclaw Valley the sharks and the minnows

the storm within him brews quietly, restrained for the sake of keeping the peace. he catches the tension in dolce’s voice, the subtle edge in his words, and though tvar does not bristle at it, he remains guarded, aware that the other man is assessing him just as much as he is assessing dolce.

not long, tvar replies, his tone level, low, carrying none of the warmth reserved for rala but also devoid of hostility. his blue eyes flick briefly toward dolce before returning to the path ahead. a few weeks. maybe less. i woke up, no memory of who i was—thankfully, it's all back now. found bearclaw by chance and cole gave me a reason to stay. he speaks plainly, offering no more detail than necessary. he isn’t one to share his story lightly, especially not with a man who clearly holds his own secrets close to the chest. but tvar respects the simplicity of dolce’s answer, the lack of pretense. there’s something familiar about it—a life forged in hard lands, shaped by the need to survive.

sounds like a far cry from the valley here. did you come looking for something better, or just ran out of places to go? just a question—an effort, however small, to understand the man walking beside him.