Bearclaw Valley you will never get to heaven.

* He dragged the body forward, nudged it into the grave he had built. A well-aimed kick sent the warm corpse downward, and unhurriedly @Merrick covered the torn fur and splayed legs with the yielding rich dirt that fed the valley's trees.

In the hours that the bear-wolf slept the summer heat rescinded, the shadows grew long, and soon the macabre scene was obfuscated; blood that had pooled where the skulk had met its end, devoured by the dirt.

The air was too heavy. Not even the trees would twitch until morning, as the world woke to light. In the dawn the ruined bodies of foxes would be found—clustered, stripped, scattered to pieces.

In those empty moments shy of the witching hour there was a nearly imperceptible shift to the upturned earth. A rise, a fall. The sound of scratching; dirt shifting in to place while the struggle persisted.

First came a set of toes, tarnished brick red, then a snout, streaked and brackish. A smudged face with eyes sunken and laden with dust. A pale countenance shuddered to life as the soil scattered. Mouth hinged in mimicry of a scream; dirt tumbling from stained lips.