Qeya River tight rope

it is only now in the silence of the hunt's aftermath does blackfell waiver. only for a brief, tentalizing second. jaw agape, sucking in large breaths, onyx sides heaving upwards with the exhaust of his efforts.

amongst the fallen stag he stands, his breath intermingling with the visible steam rising from the freshly deceased body. when suliya speaks, it is then he turns his head, allowing her a closer view of the curved fleshwound that now arcs his face.

curling from browbone to cheek. blood welling in thick, crimson rivulets. but the man wears it like it is nothing more than the hiss of a briar embedded in his paw, raising a foreleg to wipe away at some of the blood clouding his vision. the eye was spared.

but the lack of vision only returns tenfold in heavy welts of blood. he grunts, then. needs help clotting. it'll be fine.