Duck Lake what have they done to us?

the air still reeked of blood. she did, too. it clings to her, thick and metallic, woven into the tangled mess of her fur. the storm of battle has passed, but the remnants cling—blood dried and dark against raven fur, the coppery stench thick in her nostrils.

gjalla exhales sharply, watching her breath cloud before her. it does nothing to rid her of the filth that clings to her. stark’s blood, his scent. it is on her, in her, beneath her claws and in the hollow of her throat where she had torn him apart. even now, with his severed head, she can feel the phantom weight of him. her body aches, muscles tender, the fire in her veins extinguished temporarily.

disgust churns in her gut. saatine is closer, now, and before she steps foot within its bounds, before she stands before her people with stark’s death as her victory—she must be rid of him.

she steps into the shallows, the shock of cold biting into her limbs. it seeps through her fur, but she welcomes it. it runs dark as she sinks in, the filth of the day’s work peeling away in slow, red tendrils. she scrubs at her chest, at her face, claws dragging fur and flesh as if she could dig his presence from her very bones.

. . .

she wonders how they will be received. with reverence? relief? fear? it does not matter. it would not undo his death.

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for @Blackfell