Blackfoot Forest spit out your pride and lay yourself bare

Blackfell's laughter tapered off, leaving only the rasp of his breath and the faint whisper of wind through the frostbitten trees. His smirk remained, unapologetic and full of teeth as he looked at her, accompanied by the arrogant tilt of his head.

“An oaf, am I?” he rumbled out, unable to hide the ill-placed humor that laced his thick speech. He took several steps towards the woman, teeth gnashing in a mischevious jest, his neck extending to shove his face into hers. He was uncaring of any consequences—he hadn't been raised on fear, and he sure as hell wasn't scared of Gjalla.

“Marriage material,” he scoffed in her face, offering her the humored jerk of his head and the lash of his thick, scarred tail. “That what you call it? Seems more like runnin' off like a wild dog.” If she was going to throw insults, Blackfell was more than willing to meet her in the middle. He was all bristling fur and ebony fur, the picture of a Crownore bastard; and by the way she looked at him, he was starting to see that was a bit of a sore spot for her. They hadn't ever spoken aside from passing glances and agonizing curtsies.

Why the hostility?

“Aye, I'm some cur. And here you are. Frostbitten and crownless, gnashing your teeth at me like some mangy stray.” he growled, spat out, leaning closer, his breath warm against her fur. “What exactly are you proving out here? That you can run far enough, long enough, to forget who you are?”

He laughed, cold, cruel, and then gave her the cold shoulder, turning on two stocky forelegs to push past her. He made sure his fur brushed hers; there was something sweet about leaving his scent on her, for her to find in the coming days. Unless she drowned herself in an icy lake. He gave her a nasty smirk over his shoulder.

Tempt the Princess' paw.

"I got to keep movin', Princess. Blackmarch won't rebuild itself."