Bearclaw Valley had wild dreams walkin' the streets

the morning was overcast, the world leeched of vibrant colors; the grass and the trees and the flora normally green with spring cast in a dank grey hue. the morning is chilly, carrying with it the stubborn vestiges of winter not yet ready to relinquish it's hold.

raptor's pace slows as he approaches the valley, the scent of a pack growing stronger and more pungent the nearer he draws. eventually he stops, leaving plenty of distance between the borders and himself; tipping his head back to call for it's leaders.