Blackfoot Forest spit out your pride and lay yourself bare

Gjalla’s chest heaved as she sucked in the frozen air, eyes narrowing like knives upon his smug fucking face. He had barely stepped aside, towering over her with an arrogance that made her blood boil. Snow clung to her thick coat as she rose to her paws, shaking herself off in sharp, irritated motions. Her claws scraped against the frost-bitten earth as she steadied herself, her hackles still bristling from the encounter.

His laughter echoed, grating and sharp, like stones grinding beneath heavy paws. Silk and grace. The words hung in the frozen air, taunting, dredging up fragments of a life she had long since buried. The smirk on his muzzle lit a fire beneath her ribs, her teeth baring in silent rage as she squared herself before him.

"What happened?" she echoed bitterly, her voice dropping to a low rasp. A humorless smile curled the edges of her lips, a cruel, fleeting thing. "I woke up. That’s what happened." she growled, voice tight with restraint. Her fur bristled, but there was no denying the sting of his mockery, the subtle sneer that lurked beneath his every word. "I'm not exactly marriage material, either."

Her head dipped low, her lips pulling back to bare the sharp gleam of her fangs. “But you're one to talk, Blackfell,” she bit out, her voice low, seething. His name was a curse on her tongue, spat like venom. The remnants of his laughter clung to the air like smoke, and her gaze hardened. “wandering the woods like some aimless cur, pouncing on the first thing you come across. You seem more oaf than king.”