Wapun Meadow be gentle as you tear me apart

@Blackfell !!!

with delicate movements, winselt found herself drifting across a snow-kissed meadow. where wildflowers must've bloomed beautifully in the spring, now stifled by the powdered snow. it would be so beautiful, she found herself wistfully dreaming. her heart ached and yearned to frolic in the flowers, and yet, she'd have to wait. 

ever the patient, she would, but with sorrow. silky, willowy fur cloaked her petite frame as she meandered, eyes dim where they used to shine with life, with hope. although she'd met the mountain man, @Cole, a few days prior, and he'd offered her a wondrous company; he had to return home, to his pack. leaving her alone and frightened once more. 

she often found herself gazing out at the horizon, expecting to see his looming figure standing tall and resolute. only, this time when she gazed upon it, there was a different figure. unfamiliar, intimidating. her tail tucked between fragile legs, small ears planing sideward in uncertainty. this man did not smell like cole, the southern gentleman she'd been hoping to meet again. 

he smelled crisper, darker. she wasn't sure if she liked it. "hello?" her gentle, unsure voice carried across the wind like a whisper.

blackfell paused mid-stride, his head tilting slightly as the soft voice reached him. it drifted like a breath of wind, floating about him like snow drift. his fern-green eyes locked onto the woman—delicate—across the snow. a chuffed in amusement. his gaze flicked over her, taking in her tucked tail, her sideward ears, the faint quiver in her stance. fragile. scared. a willow caught in the wind. his lips twitched, not quite forming a sneer but close enough to suggest a hint of disdain for her apparent frailty.

when he finally spoke, finally grew closer upon lumbering steps, his voice was low, rough. you’re a long way from home, he speaks and his voice is more a growl than anything.

he didn't know where her home was, of course, but he knew it wasn't here.

sage eyes widened, and within them danced the fear that seemed to have crawled into her bones and made a home. he was nothing like the mountain man—grizzly, uncouth. a barbarian, the men she'd been taught to avoid. 

he stepped closed, prompting her to take a few steps backward. that low rumble of his voice sent a shiver down her spine, but for all the wrong reasons. her eyes fell and averted, submissive, subservient. the submission that was bit and clawed into her. 

"i—i am, yes." her voice nearly trembled, like a leaf in the wind. "i'm from the west coast. who are you?" not out of formality or politeness, though her tone was hardly unfriendly. just timid.

she was a dainty little thing, a trembling voice like ice and eyes like ferns, peering at him like he were a monster. earning a grizzly laugh from the lumbering black beast, crimson eyes settling on her with something cruel but content. name's blackfell. he rasps with a low flick of his tail.

he comes closer, his frame moving diagonal of the grey-furred girl, each thud of large paws against snow like the toll of a rusted bell. what are you doing alone? comes a hushed question, faintly a wheeze of a chuckle as his gaze rakes thinly over her.

her scent carries something faintly masculine, but blackfell pays it no mind. instead drawing himself to muscled haunches, planting thick paws firmly beneath squared shoulders. it's cold out.

that laugh sends a cold chill through her veins; it was dark, cruel. winslet frowns and draws into herself. she felt as if she was a lamb, and he the big bad wolf. she'd remember his name, as a reminder to stay away, should the situation sour further. 

"i was waiting for someone." it wasn't really a lie; she'd been hoping the southern gentleman would've found her before this beast. "and you? you aren't with bearclaw?" she inquired warily. what was he doing out here, skirting along their borders? 

looking for trouble, she assumes.

blackfell huffs, his breath curling like smoke in the cold air. his crimson eyes flick over the girl, sizing her up one last time before he decides she isn’t worth the effort. the game, the intimidation—it all felt hollow now, and he was bored of playing the big bad wolf. his shoulders sag slightly, the tension easing as his tail settles low against the snow. the shift is subtle but undeniable, the predator retreating into something quieter, less pointed.

never heard of bearclaw, he says flatly, his tone lacking the sharpness it had carried before. his gaze shifts past her, scanning the treeline as if already dismissing her presence. on my own right now. but i’ll be going soon.

he looks back at her, the faintest edge of curiosity creeping into his otherwise indifferent expression. i take it you’re one of these bearclaws? the question is casual, almost lazy.