Bearclaw Valley Clash of kings

d: 7 / a: 17

Tvar’s sharp blue eyes caught Cole’s shift, the subtle adjustment in his stance as he moved low and fast. This time, Tvar was ready. As Cole barreled forward toward his hind leg, Tvar pivoted sharply, his size and strength working in tandem with a surprising speed that carried him just out of reach. The snow underfoot scattered as he twisted, Cole’s momentum passing harmlessly by.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Tvar’s lips, the satisfaction of outmaneuvering his packmate briefly visible. “Not this time,” he rumbled out with a bold laugh.

Without missing a beat, Tvar used the opening to his advantage. He surged forward, his large frame moving with deliberate force, aiming to use his shoulder to drive into Cole’s side. It wasn’t reckless, nor was it overly aggressive—it was precise, a calculated strike.

Teeth gnashing, his jaws snap open, looking to take Cole by the scruff and force the brute to the snow-covered ground beneath them. All the while nostrils flaring and chest heaving with heavy breaths.