Qeya River heavy is the head

blackfell's huff is low and gruff, a sound that carries both his pride and a faint note of begrudging respect. he finds her presence tolerable in a way he hadn’t expected. there’s steel in her words, purpose in her posture.

when she questions him, he doesn’t hesitate to say:

i want gjalla.

his chin tilts upward as he speaks, crimson eyes meeting hers unflinchingly. her gaze appraises him, measuring him but he doesn’t falter. blackfell is a man who knows what he wants, and he has no intention of hiding it.

the past is behind us now, he rasps, but that doesn’t mean we should forsake what our ancestors fought so hard to build. there’s a conviction that runs deeper than his pride in the words he speaks.

his eyes narrow slightly. i will follow that woman until she accepts me. and i will hunt as one of your people while doing so; i admit, i had nothing good to say of your people before. but now i see, or i can understand. gjalla has chosen this, and i have chosen her.