Bearclaw Valley A war in my name

looking to work on tvar's mercenary trade!

The morning was cold, the air sharp with the bite of winter. Tvar moved along the border, his steps steady as he followed the well-worn trails that marked the edge of the territory. The snow crunched softly beneath his paws, the sound swallowed by the vast silence of the forest around him.

The scent markers were faint but intact—no sign of recent disturbance, though that didn't keep Tvar's fur from sitting on edge. His breath rose in faint clouds as he paused near a tall pine, its branches weighed down with frost. A quick survey of the area revealed nothing out of place, but he lingered for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over the horizon as though daring anything to emerge.

Each circuit of the border kept the Valley and those within it safe, its boundaries secured by those who called it home. Tvar appreciated the simplicity of it—no politics, just straightforward duty of protecting.