Bearclaw Valley Galant

you're the song, Avicus decides, seizing upon his indecision. she is not one to quibble or waste time on such existential debates; everything has its place and its nature, and Ashlar is a singer. he may not think there is a song of songs, but she can't agree. whatever that is, it's Ashlar. what else could he be?

she begins to hum her little tune once more, and gives a genuine smile, the first of the afternoon. yes, she says, and it's unclear whether she speaks to herself or to the young man.

then her eyes move to the water, to the brief silver rippling beneath. fish? Avicus asks, glancing toward him. there is no pile of prey beside him, nor remnants of bone; if he has been successful today, he has hid it well.