Bearclaw Valley spirits of the dead

bruise and batter they did; she felt paws ricochet off her, one landing on a shoulder, the other on her ribs. she knew she would be tender in the coming days but she welcomed the blows. the worm was finally fighting back.

she spits a glob of his fur to the ground and rises, wincing. he is stronger than she had bargained for. 

good, Avicus says, eyes glinting as she gives him a long once-over. he has earned her respect—a meager amount, but at least something. in Ursus, we fight. we kill. her muzzle wrinkles. Karst, she utters, remembering the strange, single syllable he had offered at the bear-cave before.

if that is to be his name, then so be it. it is more noble than the monikers she has assigned him so far: worm, grub, piss-baby. . .

she gathers herself and shoots a gimlet, regal stare his way, then turns—though not without remaining keenly aware of his presence behind her. should he choose to assault from behind, she will be ready. . .and satisfied, to boot.

Avicus finds herself grinning at the thought.