Wapun Meadow dripping in rot

a crass chuckle.

blackfell is ready when the man comes barreling forth, teeth gnashing, a snarl on his lips. ready for bloodshed, should the man try him. shoulders rolling, pushing himself forwards through brush in reply, as if to silently say: try it. he didn't fucking care who's territory he was on. he didn't fucking care who they were.

they were in his woman's way.

and it is gjalla's departure which pulls him from his aggressive stupor, backpedaling with a final cutting look at the piebald man, the sleek veneer of a knowing smirk on his black crown. he turns, at gjalla's flank like her obedient dog, and hearing the shuffle of @Meleeys behind them.

it would not be long now.