Dragoncrest Cliffs we want them to say, damn, these bitches can paint—

istg this was supposed to be a short sweet shitpost but?? bless whoever she sees first lmao

It would’ve been a day like any other of the cliffs — reclusive. Healing. Sort of. And though the skayona bore no ill will(?) towards those of the Sound, at some point during this particularly-peaceful afternoon, she condescended to give Ankyra a nonchalant glimpse. And that was all it took.

A scratchy, senseless wail of complaint clawed its way from the depths of the sequoian forest. The lament stomped after Aure, petering off into something peeved and plaintive.

Straggling and stalking through the scarlet and snow, every sliver of fur wisped with agitation; each step was brimming with a restlessness that remained inscribed into her ivory musculature. Firefly Ravine could choke, maybe — and so could all of those other near-death situations that’d taken place there since. If Jagtooth hadn’t snagged her, or Rosalyn with Raleska, she would’ve drowned in the waters she’s kept from for so long.

In simple terms, Bounkola was about to throw a gotdamn fit. And she was so fed up with almost dying, and how she felt so completely unable to protect herself — to fight back. If it hadn’t been for Natjuk, would Rakk still yet live? Would she even be here, carrying her mate’s children? Practically shivering with fretfulness, Aure decided then and there that whomever her sights landed on first would be her mock-adversary for today.

With a rather petulant peal of ”Ei! Vino aici! Chiar acum!“, the expectant she-wolf drew herself up with as much daunting dignity as she could summon, and hobbled her way on over through the late winter afternoon; steps wobbly, staggering through the trickster trails of snow.

It didn’t matter who she spoke to — not right now, as she scrunched her nose up at them in a convincing pout snarl; an entirely unrehearsed one that she thought was sure to have the perceiver rise to occasion.

Giving an impatient stamp-shiver of a hind, ridding it of clutching frost, Aure faithfully believed her enraged demeanor would inspire fury within the other. Why wouldn’t it? ”Fight me. I want to be foughten!” Silvered, scarred brows rose imploringly, eyes agleam with pluck. Or nerves.