Blackfoot Forest spit out your pride and lay yourself bare

Blackfell froze mid-step, his ears flicking back as her words cut through the cold like a blade. Slowly, each step more pronounced than the last, he turned, his fern-green eyes narrowing to slits, the gold in them burning like dying embers of a forest fire. The smirk that had played across his face was gone, replaced by a steely glare, his jaw set tight.

"You talk a lot for someone who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re saying," a snarl ripped past his locked teeth, spit dribbling past his dark jowls. He went back the way he came, stepping towards her with hefty footfalls, quickly bearing down on the space between them.

His voice dropped lower, colder, each word a shard of ice driven deep. "You wanna talk about failure? What the hell do you call this? Out here, starving, clawing at frozen dirt, pretending you’re something you’re not?"

He leaned closer, his breath hot against her face. His scent swirling her in suffocating plumes, an inescapable, bitter reminder of the past they both shared.

"You ran, princess." his voice was cold now. Resolute. Final. There was no denying it. "Don’t stand here and lecture me about ruin." His lips pulled back, teeth bared in a sneer.

"At least I still know what the fuck I am."