Bearclaw Valley hunters

tvar let out a low chuckle, his breath curling in the frosty air as he adjusted one of the spikes, making sure the grotesque trophy was secure. went coyote hunting with him a few days ago, he offers; more footnote than a defense.

black paws drag through the crimson ice, smoothing over the disturbed earth where they’d worked. he huffs.

don’t think either of us’ll be calling him a workhorse anytime soon, though.