Bearclaw Valley [m] burning skies

tvar had been drawn from his patrol by the overwhelming scent that she wears. his muscled frame wearing frustration, he is compelled; drawing through the brush surrounding her densite, nostrils flaring with heavy huffs of breath.

he steps forward past disturbed brush, black paws breaking the distance between them. tvar is careful, his movements steady as if not to spook her. his nostrils flare, taking in the scent that clings to her—a scent that both draws him in and sets his pulse roaring in his ears. his voice would be lost on her, so he opts for movement instead. he circles into her line of sight, ensuring she can see him clearly, hazel eyes steady on her form. head lowering slightly as he approaches further, his movements calm. a faint chuff leaves his lips, though not for sound—he knows she will see it, the soft huff of his breath against the cold air.

he does not push, does not demand—he waits, his gaze steady on her, offering her the choice of whether she will accept him.