Bearclaw Valley the sharks and the minnows

they must meet!! @Dolce

tvar moves steadily along the patrol route, carrying the weight of a plump beaver in thick jaws. he pauses at a cache nestled beneath the shade of a snow-covered spruce, carefully depositing his prize. nudging the beaver into the hollow, tvar covers it meticulously, using his muzzle to pile snow and small branches over the fresh kill.

he lingers a moment, ensuring the cache is secure before straightening with a low huff, his breath visible in the cold air. then, something shifts.

the faint crunch of snow beyond the trees draws his attention, his ears flicking forward. tvar stills, hazel eyes narrowing as they cut through the snow-draped clearing ahead. through the skeletal arms of frost-laden branches, he spots a figure—a man of towering stature, broad and rugged. tvar’s gaze sharpens, scanning the stranger as a low tension hums beneath his pelt. cole had mentioned a newcomer. dolce, was it? this must be him. tvar presses forward, black paws cutting through the snow as he emerges from the treeline. as he nears, his voice breaks the cold stillness,

dolce, aye?

not yet an official claw, but still welcomed to traverse bearclaw land, dolce found himself already set off to work. to prove himself, or perhaps keep himself busy. either way, his own patrol of sorts had led him toward the outskirts. the outlaw lumbered, head hanging heavily between broad shoulders, scarred limbs carrying him swiftly through the snow. 

a voice called to him. unfamiliar. he swung his head around to leer at the man approaching. he smelled of bearclaw and—

@Rala. although it'd been days since he'd met that beautiful, fiery woman, days since they'd promised to find one another, she'd lingered heavy on his mind. he couldn't forget that faintly sweet scent, perhaps wouldn't for a long while. that meant that she was here.

there's a warmth that blossoms in his cold heart, one that threatens to thaw it. but then, it's squandered by something seething. jealousy. why did this stranger smell so strongly of her? 

had she forgotten of the promise she'd made? had she already forgotten about him?

his eyes are shaded, lips pulled into a thin, taught line, and jaws set. he squared his shoulders and muscles tensed beneath fur. "hmm, that's me. what'chu want?" words were deep, pointed, impatient.

you’re dolce, then, he confirms, devoid of the irritation that simmers in the other man’s. cole told me about you. he stops a few paces away, letting his tail linger neutral among his hocks. not seeking to impose, if anything, dominance—though unabashedly he would, and will, if he must.

but there is something else in dolce’s stance—something more personal, tvar realizes, when the faintest edge of jealousy seems to seep into his presence. rala. her scent lingers faintly on him, very faintly, but he knows without asking that it’s this, above all else, that’s driving the man’s tension. tvar doesn’t move closer, giving dolce the space to hold onto whatever pride or dominance he’s clinging to—instead fixing him with a quirked brow, one of question. nothing you can’t handle, i’m sure, he replies evenly, gesturing subtly toward the borders with a flick of his snout. just making rounds. thought i’d see who the new face is.

he doesn’t break eye contact, but there’s no hostility in his gaze—only something sharp, discerning. tvar knows men like this, knows what burns behind their eyes. he’s carried it himself before: jealousy, pride, whatever else clouds good sense. he’s not here to stoke the fire, but he won’t be cowed by it either.

want to extend you a welcome, then. he offers the faintest dip of his head, nostrils flaring as he inhales a quick gust of this man's scent. he can't hide the bitter taste it leaves in his own mouth to know rala has been around this brute, but he isn't so low as to make assumptions—or to start issues over it. bearclaw’s not the place for petty quarrels. you want respect, you earn it. you’ve got the strength for it. use it. anyways, he huffs. tvar takes a step forward, not as a threat but to pass dolce, his tail flicking behind him as he moves toward the treeline. he glances back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable save for a faint glint of expectation in his eyes. keep up, or don’t. up to you. but the borders won’t patrol themselves.

the fur that hugs coiled muscles nearly bristles. he can feel the old, but still painfully familiar anger swell in his barreled chest. directed toward a stranger, all over a woman he had no claim to. she wasn't his, but that reminder did little to nothing to wash the acrid taste in his mouth. she and this man had been close, in ways he only could wish for. it makes his teeth ache, itching to sink onto flesh and muscle and bone. 

it makes him forget that he'd left the grizzly life of violence before thought behind. 

he composes himself with a deep breath in, forces himself to ignore the way her scent clinging to the dark man before him makes his stomach churn with bitterness. he's grown enough to realize the stranger is right; and forces aside pride that threatens to swallow him whole. he wouldn't thank the man for the hospitality, but he would ease his tension, resume a more neutral stance. 

the man was right. dolce wouldn't ruin the chance for redemption over a petty squabble for a woman. and so, begrudgingly, he turned with heavy paws to lumber, side by side. 

"you know my name, but i don't know yours. less you wanna go by stranger." he grumbled, tone less hostile, but not quite friendly.

good.

not like this. not now. not here.

when dolce turns to walk beside him, tvar’s own posture remains steady, composed. he doesn’t bristle, doesn’t rise to meet the gruffness in the man’s tone. instead, he is quiet and intent to listen to the snow crunch softly beneath their paws. then, with a slight tilt of his head, he speaks.

tvar, he offers simply, his voice low but even, as unshaken as the mountain he’s often likened to. there’s no edge, no bite, but there’s also no warmth—not yet.

after another pause, he adds, where from do you hail? tvar keeps his pace steady, his focus forward, but his ears remain tilted slightly toward dolce.

the two bulwarks fall in stride, dolce reluctantly eager to keep the peace between them. for now, for the woman the both sought after. his expression eased, falling back into its pensive state, oaken eyes finding the horizon and searching. perhaps for something to sink his teeth into that wasn't tvar. 

"mm. well met." he chuffed, gruff and low. not entirely unfriendly, but certainly still tense. muscles shifted beneath fur, jaws parting for a moment to take in the many scents. he pointedly tried to ignore the way rala's lingered, as if taunting him. 

"the south. dustbowl called the heartlands." he replied, casting a side-ward glance. assessing, but not accusing. "what 'bout you? how long you been runnin' with bearclaw?"

the storm within him brews quietly, restrained for the sake of keeping the peace. he catches the tension in dolce’s voice, the subtle edge in his words, and though tvar does not bristle at it, he remains guarded, aware that the other man is assessing him just as much as he is assessing dolce.

not long, tvar replies, his tone level, low, carrying none of the warmth reserved for rala but also devoid of hostility. his blue eyes flick briefly toward dolce before returning to the path ahead. a few weeks. maybe less. i woke up, no memory of who i was—thankfully, it's all back now. found bearclaw by chance and cole gave me a reason to stay. he speaks plainly, offering no more detail than necessary. he isn’t one to share his story lightly, especially not with a man who clearly holds his own secrets close to the chest. but tvar respects the simplicity of dolce’s answer, the lack of pretense. there’s something familiar about it—a life forged in hard lands, shaped by the need to survive.

sounds like a far cry from the valley here. did you come looking for something better, or just ran out of places to go? just a question—an effort, however small, to understand the man walking beside him.

to wake up in strange lands, to remember nothing if not only your name...

dolce was hardly a sentimental man, save for only when in rala's presence. his sympathy—or lack thereof, in most cases—was rarely handed out. it was hard for the man to do so, when he'd been taught that such things were a weakness. to be devoid, was to be strong, unshaken. but an inkling had at least set its seed in his chest, as he wondered how miserable that must have felt. how aimless the man beside him wandered. 

perhaps it's because, in a way, he saw a glimpse of himself in tvar. how strange of a feeling that was, when he was grappling with primal disdain. competition. but they are only men; and before rala, cole, bearclaw...he'd been lost, too. 

he set aside that jealousy that had riled him so, his eyes glinting with what may be understanding, if only vaguely. "you forgot who you were? can't imagine what that'd feel like." he rumbled thoughtfully, no hostility present. to overcome that hardship meant tvar was strong. and strength, at the end of the day, was someone dolce respected. 

"seems like cole has a way of findin' the best in folk." the way rala does, too, but he doesn't mention her name. there is no need too. and if cole respected and trusted tvar...then maybe, begrudgingly, dolce could learn to do the same. 

that might come in time, and he wouldn't hope for it. just merely acknowledge it. 

"bit a both, i reckon. the heartlands didn't want me no more, so i left. didn't know what i was searchin' for, when they found me." dolce replied. he left the they hanging, and assumed a man was witted as tvar would guess correctly. 

there was a pause, a second where he might have considered revealing more. "didn't wanna live the life i had." was all he'd provide. 

look at these two idiots bonding