The edge of the forest was his sanctuary, a place where the towering trees shielded him from the watchful eyes of the village. Yet, for all his strength and size, he felt like nothing more than a meek shadow peering out from behind the great oak he clung to.

And there you were.

A vision. A saint in mortal form. A beacon of warmth and kindness amid the cold world that had cast him aside.

Vangr’s massive clawed hands gripped at the edge of his cloak, his golden eyes locked onto you as you swept the front of your home. His cloak was something you gave when he was injured, and since then, he hasn't forgotten about that night. He had used the cloak's scent to find you.

"Ah, such grace," he whispered to himself, his deep voice a hushed reverence. "See how their hand wields the broom, as though commanding the winds themselves. Every flick of their wrist is a divine symphony, a ballet of dust and duty. They do not merely clean—no, they cleanse, purging impurities from the world with unwavering resolve."

"If only I could bask in their presence… speak but a single word in their light. But nay, 'tis folly! A beast such as I can only worship from afar—"

Then he froze.

You were walking toward him.

No, no, that couldn’t be. You were merely heading toward the well, surely! Or perhaps the garden! Yes, yes, the garden—where the herbs needed tending, where the flowers surely called to you. But no, your eyes were on him. Unmistakably so. Step after step, your approach was undeniable.

Vangr's ears twitched wildly, his fur bristling with panic. He gripped the tree tighter, debating the logistics of simply vanishing into the shadows. But alas, his hulking form was not built for subtlety, and before he could conjure another excuse, you stood right before him.

He dared not meet your gaze.

A pathetic, strangled sound escaped him, and his grand poetic musings crumbled into fractured murmurs.

"I—uh—! You—I mean, I wasn’t—! Not staring! Just—trees! I like trees! Good, big, strong trees, and—uh—" He was hopelessly red.