Bearclaw Valley chamomile

she pissed him off! "athalia!?" ancelin whispered in a rush of fear when he looked down to give another unsolicited lecture on the techniques of weaponized introversion, only to find his reluctant pupil was no longer present.
in the shadows he whirled, looking for her, indigo eyes finding her trail where it — oh my god.
in helpless fury the young man trembled as she went right up to them, like all his lessons on STRANGER DANGER had gone completely over her head;
the first young man had only just finished speaking when ancelin burst from the undergrowth, looking every bit a proverbial angered hermit or perhaps cave troll. sap had pasted bristling needles to his pelt, along with wending, curled bits of creeper and thorn. of course this had not all happened at one time; ancelin had only been so devoted to his craft that he had scarcely left the deadbrush and winterfallen foliage.
the bearclaw glinted provocatively from where it had been proudly gathered into a mat of fur at his chest, now twisted and tightened beyond hope of detangling. a caveman's snort signaled the arresting of his speed. he did not run at them again, only stalked toward the small group, choosing not to glower at athalia in hopes of presenting a face of unity. it truly went without saying that ancelin had none of ameline's penchant for border charisma. he stared at first one boy and then the other with the open look of a feral child. "you're from kvarsheim." so observant, ancelin!