Bearclaw Valley hunters

A brow raised at the motion of his head, his paws. Fuck? He didn't know what the male was doing, and at first glance he thought he was sick. But then his voice came, and the thought turned to wheat.
Without word, he nodded, and put his nose to ground, saliva building in his jaw, dripping to the cold ground beneath.
The vermin would be hunted easily. They didn't have to go far— the proximity bristling him further— and his pace turned into a sprint as he caught the first sign of a tail poking out from behind a tree. A veil of brown and mustering beige, he yanked the thing out. A yip was hollered, and the two others of the small gang quickly heeded the call.
Cole was certain that Tvar would make work of them, while Cole wrestled this pathetic canine to the ground. Canine, they didn't even deserve to be the same as them. All three of them male, no doubt coming here to spread their seed.
He would take it slow with the coyote. Wrestling the useless bites it attempted at his forearms, there was a twist, a crack with each forepaw.