Bearclaw Valley crash of worlds

his pace falters for a moment as a familiar chuff catches his attention. with a swing of his head, he finds tvar striding toward him. the man he once competed with, and once greeted with hostility. he felt no ire toward him anymore—he shouldn't of in the first place. 

but it's in the past, and all he can hope to do is let that be water under the bridge. 

so, he greets him with a tip of his muzzle. respectful. "mornin'," he rumbled. he stood for a moment longer, just until tvar might've joined his side. "you smell 'em?" he gestured ahead, where their scents hung thick in the cold, stagnant air. "hopin' to find where they're beddin' down." 

and while he wouldn't extend a formal invitation, part of him hoped tvar would join. two was always better than one, and perhaps he could right his wrongs.