Wapun Meadow dripping in rot

the air held a certain bleak atmosphere. the day dawned with violence. blackfell wouldn't question gjalla.

he hadn't been there to witness the ordeal. part of him questioned it in it's entirety—and certain details stuck out to him. the drakaryn's had always been self-destructive. it came as no surprise that morwenna sentenced her own blood to death so easily.

but, again, who was he to question it? a dead drakaryn was a good drakaryn.

he is at gjalla's flank now, stalking alongside her. his large frame is not so easily hid, so he is several paces from her—the distance between them charged with an unspoken need for violence. he hadn't seen the woman so pissed before. pissed to the point of a silent vow, pissed to the point that her fur was electric with fury.

it amused him. it also turned him on.

their quarry noticed them. when blackfell laid eyes on him, he had to bite back the urge to laugh. it bubbled in his throat, nearly escaping; his teeth clench together. that's no wolf, he thinks. that's a corpse.

ping for visibility since this is becoming an ordeal lol @Ameline @Ancelin @Cole