Bitterroot Valley ✢ With the holes in his sneakers

AW!

The man carried his musk like a weapon, heavy and unyielding as he pressed into the wooded edge of the valley. Each step ground into the loam, as he turned his broad shoulders toward the bark. His leg lifted, the hiss of his urine streaking down the rough trunk. Steam curled in the chill air, sharp with dominance.
He marked again, and again. The trees bore his name now, his claim, the valley written in lines of scent that no beast nor man could mistake. It was not enough to watch the herds, not enough to corral them into the lowlands. The land itself must be bound, spoken for in the language of piss and claw.
A growl coiled low in his chest as he pressed into the earth, nostrils flaring with the mingling reek of his own scent and the old musk of fox, hare, and snake. Lesser things. The trees shivered in the night wind, but they did not deny him.
Sega’s hackles eased only slightly as he lowered his leg. He turned toward the valley’s throat, pale eyes flashing like frost in the moonlight. This place was his now. And if the gods thought otherwise, they would need to rip it from his teeth.