Bearclaw Valley mollyrock

tvar’s ears flick toward the sound of approaching steps, his sharp gaze turning from the horizon to the familiar figure of cole as the man settled beside him. the northerner’s expression remains stoic, his blue eyes briefly scanning the bloodied mess that his companion had become. though he doesn’t speak immediately, there’s a flicker of acknowledgment in the way his brow twitches, the faintest sign of concern tucked behind his guarded demeanor.

aye, some day, he finally replies, his voice low and steady, the northern accent soft but unyielding, like the steady crash of distant waves. his eyes linger on the glob of blood cole spat onto the rocks, then flick back to the man himself, taking in the tension in his frame, the way he favored one side.

what’d you tangle with this time?