Larksong Grotto Warflower

He was wiped. To scale the foothills and reach the mountain, he would need more strength- and here, tucked away in a stony nook, seemed to be the best place to catch some rest, and avoid conflict. In his tiredness, however, it seemed he had chosen a territory that was not completely uninhabited. 

He'd dozed on and off, waking every now and again to scent the air, look out into the bleeding light of sunset, until the haze of dusk settled and tempted him into a deeper slumber. He fell asleep almost immediately, but awakened only minutes later with a gentle snort. For some time, this continued- 

-and he might have looked right at the wolf who watched him once or twice, in those brief periods of wakefulness, only to be dragged back into sleep a second or two later. He might have glanced directly toward both of them, when the man came to observe as well, but he couldn't have differentiated between a cattail and cottongrass at that point, unless it was less than three metres away. 

The scent of the third awakened his senses. Bear-musk caused him to stiffen, and he lifted a paw to shield the child from view as he blinked blearily up at the man. He shrank in fear of the man who blotted out the fading light of the world beyond, and from the unexpected waft of odour. His dark ears airplaned, and he tilted one shoulder toward the ground. He rumbled a thin, high-pitched growl and flicked his tongue over bared incisors, thumping his tail against the ground. Whale-eyed, he begged, physically, to be able to surrender. 

The question caused him to freeze. Which one was the right answer? The man had an accent, but Ksura couldn't pin it. He wore a pelt, but it wasn't caribou, it was bear. He trembled and licked his lips, only to find his mouth had become dry. 

S-Saatsine.