Bearclaw Valley first victim

falk is a mess of kicking limbs and tiny grunts. he feels his brother slipping away, the weight of him retreating, the air shifting.
instinct flares in his tiny chest. falk doesn’t like losing. he doesn’t like being left behind.
so he lurches forward, his oversized paws flailing, tiny jaws snapping for purchase. he misses—mostly.
mouth barely grazing jackdaw’s side before he topples forward, landing in an undignified heap against their sister instead.