Bearclaw Valley politics

aye. thirsty, hungry, covered in blood. the usual. he smirks, stepping back to admire the grim work. the message is clear. even the dumbest coyote would think twice.

as of late, the borders had been pungent. thick with the smell of piss and blood, and it was slowly beginning to overshadow the stench of coyote. tvar could only feel proud of it; it was good, honest work. and that was what he had needed, for so long, he felt.

free from the quarrels of his past. it was incessant. and to be amongst normal wolves, not caught up in the web of spinning lies and politics—he exhales a deep breath. turning to walk, no real destination in mind, though he does not stray far from the rex. pausing to throw a head over his shoulder:

what's your story?