Bearclaw Valley Where’s the fire? What’s the hurry about?

Grackle dug her paws into the mud, ready to meet the charge head-on, muscles coiling and ready to snap. But just as she prepared for the collision, the man veered off, issuing a low, warning growl that rippled through the air. She raised a brow, a mix of judgment and mild amusement crossing her features. He did not look to be in the best shape, and it occurred to the dark woman how easy it might be to dispatch him when another had already begun the job.

But the other one—now she was a different story. Less impulsive, at least in first appearance, and her eyes carried a sharpness the brute lacked. It was toward her that Grackle shifted her attention, eyes narrowing, hackles lowering just a fraction. Just passing through, she drawled, her voice a low, smooth rumble, dark and glossy as her obsidian coat. The land on this side is waterlogged, nearly impassable unless you're looking for a swim, she continued, her voice a touch sarcastic as frustration at the elements leaked through. This seemed the best route around it, Grackle added, taking a deliberate step back. Not out of fear, of course—just a small gesture of acknowledgment. The woman had been courteous enough to offer a warning instead of teeth, after all.

Grackle inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as she sifted through the jumble of scents. Wet earth, rain-soaked leaves, the musk of distant prey, and... there it was, faint but there—markers here and there, a claim that seemed to be held together by sheer will alone. Flimsy, at best.

Your scent’s weak, she observed bluntly, her tone devoid of insult but laden with a cold sort of pragmatism, an ear twitching in emphasis. She didn’t mean it as a slight, just stating a fact.

Grackle’s gaze lingered, assessing, waiting to see how the woman would respond. Would she bare her teeth and snarl, or acquiesce?