Wapun Meadow dripping in rot

there was a finality in the man's words. his tone brooked no argument—whatever blood would be spilled today, it would not soak the soil of this meadow.

"take him and leave." she needed no further instruction. the ghost of a snarl played across her lips, but she said nothing. the dying man stirred, sluggish and limping as he mustered the strength to rise. blood painted snow and grass in uneven streaks, marking his path as he staggered forward, one unsteady stride at a time. 

gjalla didn’t move immediately. it wasn’t until stark reached the edge of the meadow that she finally shifted, stalking after him with blackfell at her back. as angry as she was, she would not take to killing the one-eyed cur in front of strangers and give saatsine a bad name.

she kept her distance—close enough to remain a looming presence but far enough to suggest she wasn’t about to finish what she had started.

all in due time.