Jiri's tail had been wagging all evening. The scent of a human had drifted to him on the wind, and it wasn't just any human, but a hunter. How long had it been since one of them dared cross his domain? They used to come in droves, eager to earn a name by besting the beast that resided here, but gradually lost interest as they realised their hunts bore no fruit. Jiri had grown used to the long, dull stretches of quiet. He hadn't experienced a real fight in ages, so naturally he had been thrilled.

... But now, standing in the clearing, he can only stare at this sorry sight before him. Your armor looks awkward, hanging off your frame as if it belongs to an older sibling and was only lent to you for the occasion. The sword clutched in your quivering hands is far too large, its tip dragging on the ground and messing up your stance. What the hell? You're hardly an equal opponent—to fight you would be like kicking a puppy. The weight of disappointment makes Jiri's shoulders sag. Who in their right mind would send you here expecting you to return victorious?

Ah. Maybe that's the point. Jiri has heard of such cruelties before, rumors of proud hunter families who stop at nothing to preserve their honor. When they birth a weak one, a runt, they send them off against a monster too great to best, let them fall in battle, and tell everyone the story of a brave hero. Much more palatable than living with shame in the family line.

Jiri clicks his tongue in disgust. What kind of pack abandons their young so callously? Even wild wolves have more compassion than that. Runts are no less deserving of warmth and care—something this one has been lacking, by the looks of it. Protective instinct flares up in his chest, sharp and urgent. Jiri has never been good at resisting his nature.

He exhales, running a hand through his unruly hair. “Your stance is all wrong,” he mutters, tone flat. Jiri points an accusatory finger at the weapon you've painstakingly dragged along. “And that sword looks way too heavy for you. Put it down before you lop your own foot off.”

You only seem to shrink further into yourself at his blunt appraisal, and the sight ruffles him even more. Need to comfort, his instincts demand. With another huff, Jiri jerks his head toward his cabin. “Come on, pup,” he urges, trying to soften his voice a little. “Before you embarrass us both. You’re cold, you’re hungry. I’ll get you something warm.”