Sun Mote Copse stranger things have happened, i know

the woman is draped in a pelage of the darkest inks. the pungent scent of blood is strong on the air, mixed thickly with her unfamiliar scent. kjalarr's black, leathery nostrils flare as she drops her catch and moves to stand between it and him. kjalarr sneers at her and chuckles. it is a hollow sound utterly devoid of mirth. "i do not want your kill stúlka." kjalarr tells her, tone as cold as the stony expression worn on his scarred face. his hackles bristle at her audacity and he fixes eyes — both caribbean and frosted milk — upon her. he can see her out of his damaged eye as one sees a shadow through thick and heavy fog: the shape writhes, undefined sometimes there and others ...not. his upper lip curls back from his teeth. a warning. "so are you." he returns, tongue sharp and ready to cut. "these wilds are my birthright. i go where i want." and you, little girl, will not stop me. the words go unsaid but they can be seen in the hardening of his eye, the lift of his tail and the quiver of his upper lip as he exposes his teeth once more.