Qeya River gnashing teeth

from the shadows, blackfell emerges, clad in onyx. crimson eyes cutting through the thick of the storm. but he did not wear his usual grin, used to taunt her; it was more serious. brooding.

muscles flexing as he grows ever closer, paw steps slow over the craggy ice. with a rumble, he speaks: you've been avoiding me. he says lowly.

drinking in her scent, a smoldering ember in the dark; flushed bright by the winter scent of the brewing storm. as the wind picks up and grows stronger, whipping about them in angry torrents, he is there, standing upon the icy ledge with her.

not ready to face the truth?