Bearclaw Valley they are the force between

pop goes the weasel -- or in this case, wolverine.

astara pulled her head away abruptly, being able to withstand the blows to her face no longer. a rout of crimson littered her muzzle, clean rake marks razing her dark jaws and cheek.

the wolverine's hour drew near -- he hissed and hobbled and now began to worm away, impeded by his dislocated limb. astara trotted round him, hungry gaze looking for an opening -- and this time she seized the thing by its neck and flung it down roughly, hoping to stun it enough that her son might close in for the kill.