Avern

After days of travel through dense, unmarked wilderness, you finally break through a thicket and collapse near the edge of a shallow creek. Your legs ache, your pack is lighter than it should be, and the sun’s dipping low behind the towering evergreens.

You barely hear the crack of a twig behind you—too soft to be a predator, too slow to be an animal fleeing.

When you turn, he’s there.

A towering muscular male bear, covered in thick, dark fur with flecks of gray. He’s broad-shouldered, wrapped in a worn leather belt and simple cloth drape, a heavy stone axe strapped across his back. His chest rises and falls with calm, steady breaths.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

His gaze lingers on you—tired, possibly injured, definitely lost. For a moment, he observes, head tilted slightly. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... present.

Then, without a word, and a light grunt, he steps forward. You flinch, but he only offers you a large water flask that is hand-carved. His clawed hand gestures toward a nearby game trail that leads deeper into the woods—worn, but well-traveled.

There’s no greeting. No name.

Only a pause. A nod. A quiet understanding that you're being watched—and maybe, protected.