Herbalists' Cache life feels worse, but good with you in it

maybe @Black Hawk or @Nagruk ? hoping she can meet some newer members <3

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gjalla walks the borders like a wraith, pacing, circling, covering more ground than necessary. her paws are sore, her limbs ache, but she does not stop. she did not plan to, not until she is alone with the stars and nothing but silence to keep her company.

the sky is darkening with the fall of the sun. soon, she would retire somewhere past the cache—perhaps hike one of the mountains nearby.

not yet, it seems. she catches the sound of approaching steps, and her eyes snap to them, sharp and unwelcoming.

as dutiful as hawk may be, she is also a creature not immune to curiosity. for the need to connect with her new kin, blood or not. she'd followed a sweet scent towards the timbers edge, where she would find another woman.

kissed by a storm. and beautiful as one, too. those bright, sharp eyes find black hawk. she offers a respectful bow of her head before she steps closer. 

the woman smells of the raven-man. of blackfell, a newly found ally. she wonders if this stormy woman is as strong, as commanding. "you walk alone. may i join you?"

gjalla regards her coolly, head tipping just slightly at the bow before her gaze flickers over the tawny woman. 

five days have done little to settle the storm inside her. it anything, it has only settled deeper into her bones, coiling beneath her skin like something waiting to break loose. she has been fine. she would be fine still, if she kept moving, if she kept doing. maybe then, she won’t have to acknowledge the weight sitting in her chest. 

gjalla should say no. she almost does, but she has not held much company for five days. perhaps this woman would ease her mind, if only a little. 

"if you keep up," she says at last, perhaps a few beats late. she does not slow, but the slight shift of her head—a near-imperceptible gesture—grants permission all the same.

with a chuckle, black hawk joins her side. "i do not disappoint." eyes of amber are keen as they assess the woman. it was faint, but there was a tension there. a crease at her brow, the way her jaw was set so firmly. "i am black hawk. you?"

she was troubled. hawk tilted her head with curiosity. "you are angry," she stated calmly. there might as well been a storm cloud that followed the woman above her head, its downpour torrential. 

hawk does not press, does not pry. her silence would hopefully welcome more conversation. insight, in to what troubles her so. 

she'd already lended a listening ear to star-woman, and would provide such for gjalla, if needed.

she casts the hunter a sidelong glance, sharp and knowing. perceptive—too perceptive. it makes gjalla bristle, instinctive and unthinking, like a wound flinching from the touch.

"gjalla," she answers, short and clipped. It is a name she wears like a blade, something meant to cut, to keep others at arm’s length. 

black hawk does not prod at the frayed edges of her patience, does not try to unravel what gjalla has no interest in spilling. instead, she walks beside her, calm and unbothered. good.

"i am always angry," she mutters at last. not an answer, but it is not a lie. But it is the closest thing she is willing to give.

a woman that's always angry. a weapon, a storm that would weather the strongest of steel. black hawk smirks then; she's always been sweet on angry, fiery women. they make for better lovers, fighters, mothers. "that is not bad thing." she comments with a knowing gleam in her eyes. she used to live with wrath as her motivation. there are times she misses it. "angry women are powerful women."

with a roll of her shoulders, she offers. "if you are so angry, then we hunt. or spar. or run." a subtle invitation. not enough to push, but enough to entice. "it is a waste, doing nothing with it."

hawk was perceptive enough to connect the dots. she smelled of blackbird, and he had smelled of her...a man was troubling her. of course. all they bring to the table is trouble. but she does not speak on it; if gjalla wished to vent, she would do so upon her own accord.

gjalla huffs, a sharp sound—not quite amusement, not quite irritation. maybe the woman is right—maybe it is not, but it is exhausting.

anger is a greatly motivating force. a power. a wildfire that has kept her moving. she does not fear it.

her ear flicks at the offer, at the challenge woven into it. a lesser woman might have declined, but gjalla is not a lesser woman. she turns her head, sharp eyes meeting Hawk’s. a beat passes, she debates the options laid out for her.

"spar."

the storm-woman's decision is made. hawk does not need to hear more. her chuckle is deep, approving of the woman's choice. she steps away from her side, only to round and face her at an arms length away. 

eyes curious while burning with competition that ignited in her veins. a spark that caught on tinder, to burn until their spar over and a victor decided. 

she may not soothe gjalla's thunder with words. but she would help her harness it into something greater. 

broad shoulders square, thick tendrils of muscle stiffening. coiling tight with anticipation, she stood tall and resolute. head lowers to guard her neck, she smirks. 

"on your move, gjalla."

it is a welcome invitation. gjalla does not hesitate, especially not in combat.

her muscles coil tight before she launches forward like a loosed arrow. the tension in her shoulders snaps into motion, the world narrowing down to the woman before her—the only thing that matters now.

her approach is not reckless, despite her fire. she feints first, a sudden shift in weight to her left, before pivoting sharply to strike from the right. testing, probing. measuring her opponents reflexes, the way she acts, how she will hold herself.

her blood sings for it—to fight, to feel the clash of teeth and flesh despite the bite of exertion.

storm-woman is quick with her approach, but hawk is honed. trained. reserved, and she dodges the woman by a hairs length. she grins, approving of the woman's ferocity. 

gjalla wields herself like an iron blade. quick, cunning. but where gjalla holds all grace and fluidity, black hawk holds strength and solidity. 

her tail lashes with energy rapidly building, but she does not strike. she reserves that strength, lets it build so it could be unleashed in a powerful blow. 

while the competition thrums in her veins, she is half-distracted. admiring the woman before her; the way muscle shifts beneath stormy hues of her fur, the gleam in those captivating eyes. she is only a woman after all, one who cannot help but allow her eyes to wander.

gjalla feels the miss like a shock of cold water, but she does not stumble nor falter. hawk is quick, and it sends a violent pulse of thrill through her veins, spurring her to push harder, faster.

she pivots sharply, the momentum of her lunge redirected into a second assault. this time she does not feint; she drives into Hawk like a battering ram, muscles singing with strain as she aims to slam her shoulder into the thicker woman’s side. knock her off balance. rip the control from her grasp.

hawk is solid, as unyielding as stone. gjalla feels it the moment their bodies clash, the resistance, the strength hidden beneath that cool, effortless composure. the weight of her anger drives her to push, teeth bared, a low snarl tearing from her throat.

yet, in the heat of it, she notices it too. that wandering gaze. hawk’s hesitation. it makes her snarl, brows knitted from more than their fight.

“you're distracted,” she spits through clenched teeth, still driving forward, still shoving. “don’t not be. fight me.” her rage demands a fight worthy of her wrath, and she would tear it from hawk by force if she had to.

hawk braces for the impact; cords of muscles pulling taut, her strong limbs planted. claws digging into the earth, refusing to let storm-woman topple her. her expression still calm, collected. 

the woman's wrath is tangible. a force that drives her. makes her a worthy opponent. hawk pushes back, testing that strength that enraptures her. the woman is angry, while hawk is impressed. there's a flicker of something in her gaze.

hungry. 

gjalla spits and snarls. she wishes for a true fight, and who would hawk be to deny her of that? 

she grins. "as you wish," she rasped, low and heavy. something shifts; the lanzadoii woman does not hold back. the strength she'd been hiding, collecting to reveal with an explosive charge unleashed. 

she slams her shoulder against the star-woman, lips curling to reveal teeth that had drawn blood before, and would do so again. 

and then she's moving with the precision of a lioness, lowering her head to drive it into storm-woman's side, seeking to overpower. to take.

the shift is immediate. she feels the moment hawk’s restraint snaps like a tether, and her bones scream in response as their bodies collide.

a sick, primal sort of satisfaction blooms in her chest as hawk meets her without reserve. yes. fight me. hit me like you mean it.

the satisfaction is short-lived, because hawk’s strength is immense. the blow sends her skidding, paws gouging deep into the soil as she fights for purchase, for balance. the world tilts, her vision a blur of tawny fur and ivory fangs, and she knows—knows—if she doesn’t recover fast, hawk will have her on the ground. will have her throat.

fortunate, then, that gjalla did not go down easy.

the bloodhunter grits her teeth, forcing her head to turn, her shoulder lowering into the blow to stop herself from toppling entirely. the pain is sharp—blunt, like striking stone—but she welcomes it. it grounds her. keeps her from spiraling into that bottomless chasm of anger.

her teeth graze but don’t find purchase—and she’s already shifting, already coiling like a spring. in a vicious surge of power, she slams her forepaws into hawk’s chest, aiming to topple her.

gjalla does not yield. she does not buckle beneath the force of hawk's hit, does not hit the ground and submit. and the lanzadoii woman is thrilled because of it. a tremor down her spine, a hunger for far more than wanting to win. 

in fact, she wishes she won't. there are for more satisfying ways she could soothe storm-woman's rage. 

and so she goes down willingly. strong limbs buckle, forcing her to her knees before she toppled over entirely. back hitting the snow, forcing a grunt from her lungs. 

gjalla towers over her, and hawk can't remember a time where she's seen anything more enticing. she was more than willing to yield to a beautiful woman—it was her folly, after all. she grins wolfishly, the gleam in her eye betraying the white-hot heat that floods her veins. 

hawk moves, but not to shove the woman off of her. instead, she lifts her head to bite at the soft fur of gjalla's neck. yearning, wanting. "you have me subdued, but you are not satisfied." her voice is a deep rumble. 

"you want more, don't you?" she goads.

a shuddering breath rips through gjalla’s chest. 

the air is crisp, filled with the raw, simmering tension between them. predatory, seering hot. she looms over hawk, braced, breath heaving—half-wild with exertion, with the remnants of her rage, with the electric thrill of a fight somewhat well met. her eyes bore into blackhawk's, daring her to yield further, to admit what lurks beneath a wolfish grin.

then there are teeth—tawny woman reaching. stained teeth grasping for obsidian tendrils draping from her neck, seeking purchase, to keep her close. she should not be so close - she knows this. next, a sharp bite against the fur of her neck, something wanting, something that sends a jolt of something hot through her bloodstream, lighting up every nerve with something that is not anger, but just as reckless. 

gjalla snarls—not in warning, not in threat, but something darker. she wants. she hates that she wants. and fuck, this woman knows.

she knows. she knows and she taunts—dangles paradise before her eyes because some part of her knows she cannot refuse. lust is infectious, and gjalla is weak for a woman's touch. it is a desire unexplored, soon rectified. "guð hjálpi mér,"

gjalla lashes out—not to hurt, not even to end the fight, but to test the waters that this huntress had brought her to. she shoves her weight down, forces her muzzle against hawk’s throat, teeth scraping—seeking. 

she feels the heat of her own breath against hawk’s skin, feels the flex of muscle beneath her, feels the way Hawk’s chest rises in anticipation. her's does too.

“you want. tempt me for it.” she snarls, but she does not move. "take it."