Whitebark Stream the black sea

blood drinker.

that earns a loud, boisterous laugh from the white wolf. so, black scar is lanzadoii. that is better than sharadoii. but not good as muradoii. she gives him nothing more than a huff, relishing in the disgust that he wears upon a tattered complexion. tail swishing with hunger.

same thing that you want, one-eye. to hunt. to survive. ah, yes. it shoots a thrill through her blood to once more speak a language of kin. to feel the weight of words her own upon her blood-soaked mandibles.

we, he declared. so there was more of him. more lanzadoii. her eyes flash, crimson, seeking to poke around the outskirts of the lands that surround them. where? here? such thoughts can be seen in the way she looks, trying to gauge whether he was alone.

so you are a blood hunter too, but softer. wandering dogs. i see now. her words come in a taunting sneer, her head lifting, brow quirking as she looks upon the man. does she wish to provoke him, or merely share verbal blows? to test his strength? is he worthy of standing alongside? of following? do you know us, blood-drinkers? or just the stories?