Bearclaw Valley Clash of kings

d: 4 / a: 16

The force of Cole’s counter sent Tvar stumbling back, his paws dragging across the snow as he fought to stay upright. He landed heavily but managed to remain on his feet, though the strain showed in the stiff way he held himself. A sharp exhale escaped him, misting in the cold air, as his blue eyes narrowed in quiet frustration. The snap of Cole’s teeth came close—too close—but Tvar twisted just in time, avoiding the bite with a fraction of space to spare. He didn’t waste time analyzing the mistake or catching his breath; hesitation wasn’t an option.

His muscles tensed, and with a sharp burst of speed, Tvar launched himself forward, snow spraying behind him in wide arcs. There was no hesitation in his movements as he closed the distance, his broad frame charging with full force toward Cole. His jaws parted, aiming directly for the vulnerable bridge of Cole’s nose, a strike meant to overwhelm and knock him off his footing. Teeth bared but not looking to harm.

The charge was direct, almost reckless, but not without precision. Tvar’s weight and speed carried him with deliberate intent, his gaze locked on Cole’s every move. His focus was absolute, his movements swift and unrelenting as he bore down, leaving little room for the other wolf to evade or counter without effort. The snow crunched sharply beneath him, the clearing alive with the sound of the spar as Tvar pressed his attack.