Bearclaw Valley hunters

The Rogue had already been wide awake that morning. Sleep evaded him more often than he'd like— pacing, nightmares, the uncertainty of what he was supposed to do now keeping him chained to Winslet's den like a wounded animal.
He still had duties. This he could not ignore. A creature, monster, of habit he would always return to his post.
The birds chirped eagerly. Ears flickering, he watched the flock fly above, looking for a landing place that was safe.
This place used to be safe, too. But he didn't know how much he could credit that notion. Was there anything left? Any comfort?
Tvar's call came quick as he approached, and Cole was hastily reminded that they are the comfort. That they, the darkened warriors kissed by the sun's morning light, had to ensure that.
I smell 'em too.
His blood was already hot.