The Bears – The Northern Shadows

• Symbolism: Russia and its spheres.

• Traits: Solitary, lumbering, powerful when provoked, feared for sudden violence.

• Conflict: Fighting isolation, clawing for lost territory, wary of being caged.

• Theme: Survival, unpredictability, the tension between retreat and resurgence.

The Bears at the Round Table

In the frozen forests of the North, where the winds howled and the rivers froze solid for half the year, the Bears stirred.

They were not beasts of constant movement like the Wolves, nor did they glide in the skies like the Eagles. The Bears were creatures of silence and solitude, feared not for endless hunger but for the sudden violence of their strike.

Long ago, when the Lions still ruled the plains and the Eagles had just spread their wings, the Bears had carved a vast domain for themselves.

They lumbered across endless forests, mountains, and tundras, their paws leaving heavy imprints no other beast could match. Their strength was their vastness, their endurance, and their indifference to cold and suffering.

But the Round Table had never fully embraced them. To the Lions, the Bears were too wild, too distant, too untamed.

To the Eagles, they were rivals in shadow, lurking beyond the horizon with claws that could still tear wings from the sky. To the Dragons, the Bears were both obstacle and opportunity — a neighbor whose land stretched endlessly but whose belly was often empty.

When the Bear arrived at the Round Table, he did not stride with ceremony. He came with a low growl, his fur bristling, his eyes dark as a storm. He did not bow, nor roar, nor flap. He simply sat, heavy and immovable, his great paws pressed against the table’s edge.

The Lions snarled. “You come late, Bear. The crowns of the valley are ours. You were never fit for thrones.”

The Bear bared his teeth. “I seek no crowns. I seek what is mine — the forests, the rivers, the ice. Yet if any beast threatens them, I will not hesitate to tear flesh.”

The Eagles spread their wings, casting a shadow across the Bear. “Your threats are old, your claws dull. You lash out because you fear irrelevance. Do not mistake the patience of others for weakness.”

The Bear’s growl deepened, echoing across the table. “You forget that patience is my nature. I can sleep through storms, through famine, through wars. But when I rise, the ground shakes. When I strike, forests fall.”

The Dragon, coiled silently, tilted its head, watching the Bear with interest. The Wolves, scattered in packs, whispered of the Bear’s sudden rages — how he had pounced upon weaker packs, tearing them apart to remind the valley of his might. Some admired him; others feared him.

At the table, no beast trusted the Bear, but none could ignore him. His hunger was unpredictable. One season he might retreat into hibernation, ignoring the valley entirely.

Another season he might surge forth, seizing land, clawing at borders, daring the Eagles to descend or the Lions to roar.

The Bear’s greatest weapon was not his size alone, but his willingness to endure. He could suffer more than others, bleed longer, fight in cold and hunger until rivals gave up. It was a strength that unnerved even the proud Eagles, for wings grew heavy in endless winters.

And so the Bear sat, growling low, his presence a reminder that even in silence there lies danger. He did not speak of legacy like the Lions. He did not proclaim guardianship like the Eagles. He did not promise inevitability like the Dragon.

He simply waited, massive and unmoving, daring the others to test his patience.

For in the heart of the valley, every beast knew: if the Bear rose fully to his height and struck with all his weight, the Round Table itself might splinter beneath his paws.