Bearclaw Valley iron defenses

his jaws tear through sinew, warm blood pooling in his mouth, the iron taste thick on his tongue. his breathing is steady, even as the coyote's head finally comes free with a sickening snap. he spits out tufts of fur, shaking blood from his muzzle before glancing toward ameline. she is just as bloodied, just as ruthless in her duty.

he does not revel in this, but he does not regret it either. their land will not be overrun, not while he still draws breath.

he grips the severed head by the scruff, lifting it. where do you want them?