Bearclaw Valley Galant

what he says is a compliment of the highest order. i am the hunt, she repeats, and lifts her chin. she is the hunt; she had heard the bull elk's call first, and led the wolves of Ursus to chase him down. she is the one who routinely stuffs the pack's caches with fresh meat. she is the one who continues to cheat death.

everything is a song. Avicus nods, understanding. well, maybe not quite—but she takes his meaning. she does not hear his music in every facet of life, but she does hear a kind of primal melody, a beat like that of a heart.

what is your song? she asks, wondering if he has thought of it; she would be surprised if not. for her part, her face grows gruff and studious, brow wrinkling once more as she tries to decipher what makes him him. but she has not the music, and so she leaves it to Ashlar, teeth sinking ever so slightly in her lower lip in contemplation.