Wapun Meadow dripping in rot

a growl comes forth from blackfell. one after another, wolves appear in the clearing, first a tiny, pathetic excuse for a woman who thought to scare them off. that pulls a malding chuckle from the dark man, leading him to stalk out further into the meadow, imposing form rippling with trained muscle.

words do not form though, silenced by what unfurls before him. a formidable form ready for war at the side of gjalla, crimson eyes scanning each and every body in attendance. a girl, then a man, then another man—this one puffed with pride and demanding answers. their leader, he assumes.

he simply buries eyes into the fading form of stark. soon, the bastard will die. preferably by their jaws, but not with this lot in their way. he bristles alongside the raven woman as she spits her bile, a sharp rebuttal to what stark claimed.

blackfell raises a black crown and a sharp snarl comes rolling forth from the cage of his teeth. one-eye is ours to handle. stand down. a calloused demand.