Bearclaw Valley hunters

Cole glances at Tvar, then at the spikes, his expression unreadable. He exhales through his nose, crouching to pick up a small bird skull, turning it over in his paw. The weight of it feels light—too light to carry the kind of promise they needed.
His gaze flicks back to Tvar, scanning the sharp ridges along his spine before huffing. Damn well hope so. He tosses the skull into the growing pile with a dull clatter, straightening. If not, we’ll make ‘em.