December 19, 2024, 04:30 PM
(This post was last modified: December 19, 2024, 04:32 PM by Blackfell.)
His heavy paws crushed ferns and moss underfoot, leaving dark impressions that slowly faded into nothing but evidence of his passing. The beams of sunlight that pierced through the tall, sentinel-like trees dappled his dark coat in fleeting patches of light as he passed underby.
Behind him, he could hear Gjalla’s steady steps, her movements quieter but no less determined. She didn’t complain, didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer anything to fill the silence. When he finally stopped, it was without warning, his broad frame stilling as his ears flicked toward the faint gurgle of a creek nearby. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Gjalla in his peripheral vision.
He wondered when she was going to leave. It was inevitable, if he knew anything about her. She’d run once, hadn’t she? Left behind the cage she hated, the crown she’d been promised, the life that had been set before her.
What was to stop her from running again?
Blackfell snorted softly, shaking his head. It wasn’t his concern, not really. She was here now, and that was enough—for now. Still, as he watched her, standing just beyond the edge of the creek, her dark coat catching the dappled light filtering through the trees, he found himself wondering.
It was a nice fantasy, wasn't it? A Stormrift princess at his side? The idea of seeing her turn into a Queen, his Queen. At the same time, the very thought disgusted him. Blackfell wasn't one for dreaming. He stamped it down.
“I’m moving on at dawn,” he said over his shoulder, his voice matter-of-fact, as if her decision didn’t matter one way or the other. They had been orbiting the same few patches of land over the past few days while Blackfell got his bearings; put his cracked demeanor back together. He was confident, now. At the very least, prepared.
An awkward, burning tension lingered upon his raven pelt. Rejection had never wounded him. Still...
December 19, 2024, 04:47 PM
Gjalla’s gaze rested on him, unblinking and unreadable, her expression carved from cold stone. She stood a pace back, the faint ripple of sunlight playing across the sharp planes of her features, but none of its warmth reached her eyes.
She didn’t respond right away. Her breath curled in the cool air, silent but steady, as if she were biding her time—tasting the weight of his words before deciding whether or not they were worth acknowledging. She studied him, the set of his shoulders, the flick of his ear, the way tension coiled through him as though he expected her to strike.
"So am I." She replied without the firmness of her voice, a rasp. She moved past him, stepping into the gurgling creek with careful balance. The water swirled around her paws, darkening the fur to an inky black as she dipped her head low, lapping at the surface. She moved like the wolves she’d been raised to despise—carefully controlled, but with the faintest edge of arrogance, as if she expected the world to bend to her will.
When she lifted her head, her gaze caught his again, glinting in the fractured light. Watching her, stalking. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, flicking an ear. She recognized the look in his eye. He thought she’d leave — perhaps he was right to. She was good at that. Leaving before anything could tether her too tightly. Before it could hurt. Gjalla was not always as steadfast as she wanted.
“Settling with a friend and some nomads.” She turned then, stepping out of the creek and shaking the water from her paws with a sharp motion.
She didn’t respond right away. Her breath curled in the cool air, silent but steady, as if she were biding her time—tasting the weight of his words before deciding whether or not they were worth acknowledging. She studied him, the set of his shoulders, the flick of his ear, the way tension coiled through him as though he expected her to strike.
"So am I." She replied without the firmness of her voice, a rasp. She moved past him, stepping into the gurgling creek with careful balance. The water swirled around her paws, darkening the fur to an inky black as she dipped her head low, lapping at the surface. She moved like the wolves she’d been raised to despise—carefully controlled, but with the faintest edge of arrogance, as if she expected the world to bend to her will.
When she lifted her head, her gaze caught his again, glinting in the fractured light. Watching her, stalking. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, flicking an ear. She recognized the look in his eye. He thought she’d leave — perhaps he was right to. She was good at that. Leaving before anything could tether her too tightly. Before it could hurt. Gjalla was not always as steadfast as she wanted.
“Settling with a friend and some nomads.” She turned then, stepping out of the creek and shaking the water from her paws with a sharp motion.
December 20, 2024, 01:11 AM
(This post was last modified: December 20, 2024, 01:12 AM by Blackfell.)
Blackfell’s lips twitched into something caught between a smirk and a grimace as her words rang like the final toll of a bell.
So am I.
His fern eyes followed her as she moved. She carried herself like she’d always had a crown just out of reach, even now, even here, wading through the creek like it was hers to command.
“Friend and some nomads,” he echoed. He tilted his head, his gaze narrowing as he watched her shake the water from her paws. “Sounds quaint. Bet they’ll love that sunny disposition of yours.”
Blackfell didn’t look away, didn’t soften the edge of his challenge. He wasn’t waiting for her to prove him wrong—he wasn’t that foolish. But he was waiting, nonetheless, to see what kind of woman she’d decide to be.
"Nomads." He repeated it, again, with a louder scoff this time, turning with a vicious cold shoulder. "You're making a mistake."
So am I.
His fern eyes followed her as she moved. She carried herself like she’d always had a crown just out of reach, even now, even here, wading through the creek like it was hers to command.
“Friend and some nomads,” he echoed. He tilted his head, his gaze narrowing as he watched her shake the water from her paws. “Sounds quaint. Bet they’ll love that sunny disposition of yours.”
Blackfell didn’t look away, didn’t soften the edge of his challenge. He wasn’t waiting for her to prove him wrong—he wasn’t that foolish. But he was waiting, nonetheless, to see what kind of woman she’d decide to be.
"Nomads." He repeated it, again, with a louder scoff this time, turning with a vicious cold shoulder. "You're making a mistake."
December 21, 2024, 02:05 AM
"Not sure that's how I'd characterize myself." She mused half-heartedly.
Her jaw tightened as his scoff rang out, loud and dismissive, echoing in the space between them. She stared at his back, at the sharp planes of his shoulders as he turned away.
She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. Her expression, carved from something colder than stone, cracked just enough to let a glimmer of irritation seep through. The faintest twitch of her ear betrayed her confusion.
“A mistake?” she echoed, but threaded with incredulity. She turned her head, her piercing gaze snapping to him like an arrow loosed from its string. “The fuck’ve any nomads done to you? Steal your lunch?”
Her tail swayed behind her, not as a taunt but as a quiet mark of her conviction. Gjalla had always been a woman of thorns, and now, in the face of his judgment, she felt every one of them bristle.
"Don't lose sleep over it, Blackfell. I won't." The words were thrown over her shoulder, dry and cutting, but her steps slowed just enough to see if he’d respond.
Her jaw tightened as his scoff rang out, loud and dismissive, echoing in the space between them. She stared at his back, at the sharp planes of his shoulders as he turned away.
She shot him a look from the corner of her eye. Her expression, carved from something colder than stone, cracked just enough to let a glimmer of irritation seep through. The faintest twitch of her ear betrayed her confusion.
“A mistake?” she echoed, but threaded with incredulity. She turned her head, her piercing gaze snapping to him like an arrow loosed from its string. “The fuck’ve any nomads done to you? Steal your lunch?”
Her tail swayed behind her, not as a taunt but as a quiet mark of her conviction. Gjalla had always been a woman of thorns, and now, in the face of his judgment, she felt every one of them bristle.
"Don't lose sleep over it, Blackfell. I won't." The words were thrown over her shoulder, dry and cutting, but her steps slowed just enough to see if he’d respond.
December 22, 2024, 03:24 AM
Blackfell’s ears flicked at her words, the sharp edge of her tone cutting through the stillness like the snap of a brittle branch. He didn’t turn back immediately, didn’t acknowledge her jab about the nomads stealing his lunch, though the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed some amusement he refused to show her. Instead, he kept walking towards the river stream, his heavy paws pressing into the moss with deliberate force.
Her final quip, however, made him stop. His shoulders stiffened, the tension rolling through his broad frame as he turned his head just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.
His gaze dropped briefly, sweeping over her in a way that wasn’t mocking but wasn’t exactly kind, either. “Nomads,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain as he spat the word. “They don’t build anything. They don’t stay. They drift, same as the wind. You think they’ll give you purpose? A place? They’ll leave you behind the second it suits them.”
His claws flexed against the moss, and he took a half step back, shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge the weight of the conversation. “But go ahead. Make your mistake. Doesn’t matter to me.” He started to turn away again but hesitated, his ears swiveling back toward her.
“Just don’t pretend you’re above it all,” he muttered, quieter this time, though no less sharp. “You’ll care. Sooner or later, you’ll care.”
Her final quip, however, made him stop. His shoulders stiffened, the tension rolling through his broad frame as he turned his head just enough to glance at her over his shoulder.
His gaze dropped briefly, sweeping over her in a way that wasn’t mocking but wasn’t exactly kind, either. “Nomads,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain as he spat the word. “They don’t build anything. They don’t stay. They drift, same as the wind. You think they’ll give you purpose? A place? They’ll leave you behind the second it suits them.”
His claws flexed against the moss, and he took a half step back, shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge the weight of the conversation. “But go ahead. Make your mistake. Doesn’t matter to me.” He started to turn away again but hesitated, his ears swiveling back toward her.
“Just don’t pretend you’re above it all,” he muttered, quieter this time, though no less sharp. “You’ll care. Sooner or later, you’ll care.”
December 22, 2024, 12:31 PM
Gjalla’s stare sharpened, cold as the icy creek at her paws. She tilted her head slightly, watching him with an unflinching gaze that bore into him like steel on stone. Her first instinct was to lash out—to snap at him for speaking as though he had the faintest idea what she cared about, let alone why.
For a long moment, she didn’t respond, didn’t storm after him or bite back as quickly as he probably expected. Instead, she stood still, rooted like an ancient pine, the breeze stirring through her dark fur as she stared at his back.
“Holy shit, can I do anything without you climbing down my throat about it?” she snapped, as if she were addressing an unspoken accusation. Her lip curled, not in a snarl, but in something more bitter. "You barely even know me."
Her steps were deliberate as she closed the distance, her claws raking against the mossy earth as though each one could carve out her irritation. When she stopped, she was just short of invading his space, her posture tense but controlled—barely. “It’s not that serious, Blackfell. Not everything has to be some grand fucking tragedy, or failure, or—whatever it is you think this is.”
Her jaw clenched as she shook her head, exhaling sharply through her nose. “I’m not looking for a kingdom, or a legacy, or—hell, even a damn home right now. I’m staying with them for my friend, not because I think it’ll magically fix me.”
She stepped back then, her tail flicking behind her with a sharp, deliberate motion. “But sure. Lecture me more about how little you care while you stew over my life choices like they’re your personal problem.” Her gaze flicked to his claws flexing against the moss, her lip curling faintly.
“If you’re so sure I’m making a mistake, then stop acting like it’s going to kill you when it happens.”
For a long moment, she didn’t respond, didn’t storm after him or bite back as quickly as he probably expected. Instead, she stood still, rooted like an ancient pine, the breeze stirring through her dark fur as she stared at his back.
“Holy shit, can I do anything without you climbing down my throat about it?” she snapped, as if she were addressing an unspoken accusation. Her lip curled, not in a snarl, but in something more bitter. "You barely even know me."
Her steps were deliberate as she closed the distance, her claws raking against the mossy earth as though each one could carve out her irritation. When she stopped, she was just short of invading his space, her posture tense but controlled—barely. “It’s not that serious, Blackfell. Not everything has to be some grand fucking tragedy, or failure, or—whatever it is you think this is.”
Her jaw clenched as she shook her head, exhaling sharply through her nose. “I’m not looking for a kingdom, or a legacy, or—hell, even a damn home right now. I’m staying with them for my friend, not because I think it’ll magically fix me.”
She stepped back then, her tail flicking behind her with a sharp, deliberate motion. “But sure. Lecture me more about how little you care while you stew over my life choices like they’re your personal problem.” Her gaze flicked to his claws flexing against the moss, her lip curling faintly.
“If you’re so sure I’m making a mistake, then stop acting like it’s going to kill you when it happens.”
December 23, 2024, 02:32 PM
“Barely know you?” he echoed, his voice low, gravelly, as if the words were dragged from deep in his chest. His lip twitched, a faint sneer curling at the edge of his muzzle. “You think I need to know your favorite flower to see exactly what you are?”
His gaze raked over her, tongue lashing across his bridgework. He tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping into something quieter, rougher, like a growl. “So yeah, maybe it pisses me off. Watching someone who could be more decide she's gonna play nomad.”
The last words were spat like venom, but there was something underneath them, something buried deep that he didn’t let surface. Frustration, maybe. Or regret. Whatever it was, it lingered in his eyes for just a moment before he pulled back, shaking his head sharply as if to rid himself of the weight of it.
“Go to your nomads,” he said finally, his voice flat and cold. "It’s not going to kill me. Watching you waste yourself? It’s just sad.”
His gaze raked over her, tongue lashing across his bridgework. He tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping into something quieter, rougher, like a growl. “So yeah, maybe it pisses me off. Watching someone who could be more decide she's gonna play nomad.”
The last words were spat like venom, but there was something underneath them, something buried deep that he didn’t let surface. Frustration, maybe. Or regret. Whatever it was, it lingered in his eyes for just a moment before he pulled back, shaking his head sharply as if to rid himself of the weight of it.
“Go to your nomads,” he said finally, his voice flat and cold. "It’s not going to kill me. Watching you waste yourself? It’s just sad.”
December 24, 2024, 11:33 PM
Gjalla’s eyes narrowed, the heat in her chest rising like a silent, smoldering fire, threatening to break free. She could feel the weight of his gaze dragging over her, and it was as if his words were sharpened knives, slipping beneath her skin with ease.
The sneer at the corner of his lip only deepened the sense of detachment that she’d learned to wear like armor. She didn’t flinch. “You think you know me?” she echoed, a dry edge to her voice. “You don’t know the first thing about me—do you know why that is? It's because you're too caught up with whatever you think I am.”
“We are not friends,” She said, her voice dropping low, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. “You don’t get to tell me what I’m worth. You don’t get to decide what I should do. You’re not my fucking keeper.”
Her eyes narrowed as his words about her “wasting” herself slithered into her chest like a cold breath. It stung, but she kept it hidden, locked down in the deep corners of her mind where only the coldest things lived. Her lips barely curled, a half-smile that could have been as much a sneer as his.
Without a single word, she whirled on him. She didn't care for his judgment, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there, letting it carve into her like he had a right to it. Her paw shot out, moving faster than Blackfell could react, the sound of her palm slamming against his cheek ringing through the meadow. She stood there, chest heaving, her breath coming in shallow, jagged bursts as her eyes locked with his, daring him to speak.
The slap had been swift, precise, but it carried with it the weight of her anger—of her pride, her boundaries, and the fact that she would not be diminished by the likes of him. "I’ll tell you what’s sad," She took another step forward, her eyes flicking to the side, then back to him. "Thinking you’ve got any right to tell anyone what they're doing with their life. You haven’t got a clue what this is about, and you sure as shit don’t get to talk to me like that," she snarled, her voice low but cutting through the silence like a blade.
“I don’t owe you an explanation for any of this. Not for why I’m with the nomads, not for why I’m here—” she gestured briefly, encompassing the expanse of woods around them, “—and certainly not for whatever fantasy you’ve built up in your head about who I should be. You’re not the one who gets to decide that. I do.”
The sneer at the corner of his lip only deepened the sense of detachment that she’d learned to wear like armor. She didn’t flinch. “You think you know me?” she echoed, a dry edge to her voice. “You don’t know the first thing about me—do you know why that is? It's because you're too caught up with whatever you think I am.”
“We are not friends,” She said, her voice dropping low, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. “You don’t get to tell me what I’m worth. You don’t get to decide what I should do. You’re not my fucking keeper.”
Her eyes narrowed as his words about her “wasting” herself slithered into her chest like a cold breath. It stung, but she kept it hidden, locked down in the deep corners of her mind where only the coldest things lived. Her lips barely curled, a half-smile that could have been as much a sneer as his.
Without a single word, she whirled on him. She didn't care for his judgment, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there, letting it carve into her like he had a right to it. Her paw shot out, moving faster than Blackfell could react, the sound of her palm slamming against his cheek ringing through the meadow. She stood there, chest heaving, her breath coming in shallow, jagged bursts as her eyes locked with his, daring him to speak.
The slap had been swift, precise, but it carried with it the weight of her anger—of her pride, her boundaries, and the fact that she would not be diminished by the likes of him. "I’ll tell you what’s sad," She took another step forward, her eyes flicking to the side, then back to him. "Thinking you’ve got any right to tell anyone what they're doing with their life. You haven’t got a clue what this is about, and you sure as shit don’t get to talk to me like that," she snarled, her voice low but cutting through the silence like a blade.
“I don’t owe you an explanation for any of this. Not for why I’m with the nomads, not for why I’m here—” she gestured briefly, encompassing the expanse of woods around them, “—and certainly not for whatever fantasy you’ve built up in your head about who I should be. You’re not the one who gets to decide that. I do.”
December 26, 2024, 07:26 AM
His cheek burned, but it wasn’t the slap that truly ignited the fire twisting in his chest—it was her. Gjalla. Her defiance, her refusal to see sense, her utter dismissal of everything he knew to be true. It clawed at him in a way nothing else could, and he hated it. Hated her, maybe. But not enough to walk away.
He turned his head slowly, eyes meeting hers, the faint curl of his lip showcasing angry teeth. "You really don’t get it, do you?" he growled out, eyes tracing every inch of her infuriating, beautiful face.
“You’re a princess, Gjalla.” He spoke as if it were both a blessing and a curse. As if her title was something more important than she were. “Your bloodline is strong. Your legacy? Stronger. And you’re gonna throw all of that away? For what?" His teeth snap as he speaks, pronouncing each word. "Nomads?" The very word is an insult when he speaks it.
He realizes quickly it's useless. He's saying shit she doesn't care about.
He realizes she's an idiot. Let her be one. It wasn't his job to save her.
He realizes she didn't want him to save her. That pisses him off even more.
So he took a step back, like the final nail in the coffin. Chest rising and falling as he inhales furious breaths, filling the air around his face with visible smoke. “Fucking go.” he barked out.
He turned his head slowly, eyes meeting hers, the faint curl of his lip showcasing angry teeth. "You really don’t get it, do you?" he growled out, eyes tracing every inch of her infuriating, beautiful face.
“You’re a princess, Gjalla.” He spoke as if it were both a blessing and a curse. As if her title was something more important than she were. “Your bloodline is strong. Your legacy? Stronger. And you’re gonna throw all of that away? For what?" His teeth snap as he speaks, pronouncing each word. "Nomads?" The very word is an insult when he speaks it.
He realizes quickly it's useless. He's saying shit she doesn't care about.
He realizes she's an idiot. Let her be one. It wasn't his job to save her.
He realizes she didn't want him to save her. That pisses him off even more.
So he took a step back, like the final nail in the coffin. Chest rising and falling as he inhales furious breaths, filling the air around his face with visible smoke. “Fucking go.” he barked out.
December 27, 2024, 03:36 PM
Gjalla didn’t flinch beneath his glare, even as the weight of his words fell like hammer blows against her pride. Carved from frost and stone, she wouldn’t crack under his furious scrutiny. “You’re right,” she spat, her voice cutting through the frozen silence like a blade unsheathed. “I don’t get it.”
Her breath hitched with the intensity of her anger, visible puffs of condensation curling in the frigid air between them. She stepped forward, closing the space he had retreated from, her presence looming large, a wolf cornering prey. “You think I care about crowns? About titles? About staying where the world tells me to stay? I’ve seen what that does, Blackfell. I’ve lived it. A wolf is more than their title.”
The fire behind her words didn’t falter, but there was something else there now, quieter, softer—an ember buried beneath the flame. Gjalla’s jaw clenched, her nostrils flaring as she exhaled sharply, a visible tremor running through her as she reined herself in. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter but no less firm, like steel tempered in flame. “I’m not the one who needs saving, Blackfell.”
She turned away, her movements sharp, her steps carrying her toward the creek. As the water lapped around her paws, she paused, casting a glance over her shoulder, her gaze piercing through him one last time. Maybe that’s why it pisses you off so much.”
With that, she moved forward, the sound of the rushing stream swallowing her footsteps, leaving him to simmer in the biting cold of her absence.
Her breath hitched with the intensity of her anger, visible puffs of condensation curling in the frigid air between them. She stepped forward, closing the space he had retreated from, her presence looming large, a wolf cornering prey. “You think I care about crowns? About titles? About staying where the world tells me to stay? I’ve seen what that does, Blackfell. I’ve lived it. A wolf is more than their title.”
The fire behind her words didn’t falter, but there was something else there now, quieter, softer—an ember buried beneath the flame. Gjalla’s jaw clenched, her nostrils flaring as she exhaled sharply, a visible tremor running through her as she reined herself in. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter but no less firm, like steel tempered in flame. “I’m not the one who needs saving, Blackfell.”
She turned away, her movements sharp, her steps carrying her toward the creek. As the water lapped around her paws, she paused, casting a glance over her shoulder, her gaze piercing through him one last time. Maybe that’s why it pisses you off so much.”
With that, she moved forward, the sound of the rushing stream swallowing her footsteps, leaving him to simmer in the biting cold of her absence.
exit gjalla
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