Herbalists' Cache i work so much, can't be reminded

backdated to march 1st!

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the sun has barely crested the horizon, and gjalla is already moving. she hasn’t stopped—not really—not since the fight. the exhaustion clings to her bones, but she grits her teeth and keeps pushing. the more she works, the less she has to think. the less she has to feel.

she moves with a singular purpose, and that in itself still feels undefined. her stride is dragging, tired from exertion, but she does not slow. not even when the exhaustion starts to bite.

The caribou are beginning to move towards daytime feeding grounds when Nagruk spots a trail distinctly canine amidst their paths. A twitch of her nose reveals the familiar, biting scent of Blackfell, but fainter and masked beneath the perfume of a woman.

She tracks it further to where the snow begins to scuff from the drag of paws and soon spots a blot of dark against the winter landscape. Her beath puffs, debating whether to approach but it is curiosity that eventually wins. "Woman of Blackfell?" There is no greeting, little concern for the woman's wellbeing as she calls out from behind. Only the desire to untangle a connection.

gjalla does not still at the call, does not flinch, does not acknowledge it. as if she hadn’t heard. as if she did not care.

she does. but it is not her name, and she has no interest in speaking about blackfell.

her ears flick back before she finally moves, slow and deliberate, turning just enough to fix the stranger with a look that is all cold steel and sharpened edges.

"gjalla." she corrects with a rasp, rough from exhaustion, from the weight of her own fucking mind chewing itself to pieces.

her gaze drags over the dark woman, assessing, but she does not waste time with pleasantries. "what do you want?"

It is silence that greets her first. An absence of response and then, a crunching of snow as the woman finally turns to face her. "Gjalla," Nagruk repeats, liking the way the name sounds on her tongue. 

She is hail and stormcloud, and though Nagruk can see the tiredness in her stance, she admires the purpose in her step and appreciates the lack of small-talk. "Want only to hunt, track caribou." Lumbering closer, she bursts Gjalla's bubble with a roving nose to the cheek to breath in more of Blackfell's musk. "He do this to you? Make you get no sleep?"

gjalla stiffens like a bowstring, recoiling so sharply that her hackles bristle in an instant. the touch is unwelcome—unfamiliar—and she snaps her head back with a warning snarl and the snap of teeth.

"get off,"

the words are carved from ice, laced with the brittle edge of sleepless irritation. she does not know this woman, does not care for her proximity, and certainly does not fucking appreciate the insinuation. 

her glare is flint and fire, daring Nagruk to try again. "my sleep is my own concern." her voice is lower now, still edged, but tempered by exhaustion rather than outright hostility. "if you’re looking for someone to whine to about blackfell, find another."

This one is fierce, ill-tempered - it seems she's struck a nerve - but the message is clear. Although Nagruk wishes to inspect the woman further, to map his scent in her fur, she allows Gjalla to pull away with a mirrored growl of her own. "Fine. No talk of Blackfell." Her teeth click. She is not in the mood for a fight and wonders inwardly if it is just tiredness that fuels her icefire.

Letting the air huff from her lungs, she stalks stiffly to where the caribou tracks cut cleanly through the terrain. "We hunt then." It is an invitation as much as it is a command, knowing but caring little that the bloodhunter ranks above. If Gjalla is out here, Nagruk intends to remind her that Saatsine pities no one, waits for no one, and expects no mistakes of a sleepless wolf.

gjalla watches her move, the sharpness in her gaze not yet thawed. there is something vaguely irritating about the woman—perhaps the way she assumes, the way she prods—but at the very least, she is not wasting her time with empty words.

her tail flicks once, dismissing whatever bristling tension in favor of keeping peace—she does not have the energy to fight now. fine. if this woman is looking for weakness, she would not find it here.

with a stiff breath, she falls into step, her focus shifting to the distant blobs of brown—the caribou. if they move quickly, they can close the distance before the herd settles. "come." and then she is moving, swift and soundless, vanishing into the frost.