Bearclaw Valley the sharks and the minnows

you’re dolce, then, he confirms, devoid of the irritation that simmers in the other man’s. cole told me about you. he stops a few paces away, letting his tail linger neutral among his hocks. not seeking to impose, if anything, dominance—though unabashedly he would, and will, if he must.

but there is something else in dolce’s stance—something more personal, tvar realizes, when the faintest edge of jealousy seems to seep into his presence. rala. her scent lingers faintly on him, very faintly, but he knows without asking that it’s this, above all else, that’s driving the man’s tension. tvar doesn’t move closer, giving dolce the space to hold onto whatever pride or dominance he’s clinging to—instead fixing him with a quirked brow, one of question. nothing you can’t handle, i’m sure, he replies evenly, gesturing subtly toward the borders with a flick of his snout. just making rounds. thought i’d see who the new face is.

he doesn’t break eye contact, but there’s no hostility in his gaze—only something sharp, discerning. tvar knows men like this, knows what burns behind their eyes. he’s carried it himself before: jealousy, pride, whatever else clouds good sense. he’s not here to stoke the fire, but he won’t be cowed by it either.

want to extend you a welcome, then. he offers the faintest dip of his head, nostrils flaring as he inhales a quick gust of this man's scent. he can't hide the bitter taste it leaves in his own mouth to know rala has been around this brute, but he isn't so low as to make assumptions—or to start issues over it. bearclaw’s not the place for petty quarrels. you want respect, you earn it. you’ve got the strength for it. use it. anyways, he huffs. tvar takes a step forward, not as a threat but to pass dolce, his tail flicking behind him as he moves toward the treeline. he glances back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable save for a faint glint of expectation in his eyes. keep up, or don’t. up to you. but the borders won’t patrol themselves.