Bearclaw Valley follow me into the golden wild

tvar huffs, the sound low and amused, but there’s something knowing beneath it. he doesn’t press closer—doesn’t push—but he doesn’t step back either.
not being cryptic, he rumbles, voice even. his gaze lingers on her, unreadable, patient. just speaking plain.
the wind shifts, tugging at his fur. some things can’t be forced.