Blackfoot Forest spit out your pride and lay yourself bare

Blackfell’s jaw tightened, his teeth clicking shut with a sharp snap as he let the rest of his words die in his throat. The effort it took to stop—to still the storm that had built inside him—was visible in the tension coiling through his shoulders, his chest heaving with the force of his ragged breath.

Her words lingered, heavy as the snow that clung to the trees, and for once, he didn’t meet them with snarls or scorn.

She was right.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he huffed out a bitter exhale. Then, he stepped forward. Shoved himself into her personal space, shoved his face into hers, breath beating down on her snout as he did so. Cold breath fading into the night air. “You can shove your pity.”

“I’m leaving,” he said, blunt, and let his eyes rake over her like slow-rising steam. “Got no interest in rotting out here. There’s something better waiting, and I’m going to find it.” He huffs and turns then, for the final time, large shoulders rolling with muscle attuned to the hardships of a mountaineer. His footfalls heavy, raking up snow in his wake.

"You’re not a wastrel, Gjalla. You’re a leader. You’re meant for more than freezing to death in the woods.” His voice falls off with the wind as he trudges onwards, black silhouette moving through the frigid trees, leaving behind with him a violent ultimatum. His pace was steady, his tail flicking once behind him, the faintest signal that he wasn’t just walking away. He was leaving.

And she was more than welcome to follow.