Bitterroot Valley [m] mourning dove

stoic. sentinel. a beast as towering as the night's tall sky. he strides alongside the chieftain's wife, sworn to her protection; an iron escort from the lengths of qeya river and out into the wilderness of the taiga. she wished for herbs.

she would have them. blackfell had had time to come to terms with this new life. where he was not king, where he served at the mast of a chieftain. where he lived alongside a woman he once detested. the simple truth: he could not hate star eater if he were intent on marrying her spirit sister. and he could not hate her if he were to serve bloodhunter to her husband.

an onyx stalactite. crimson eyes peel through the valley, arcing over snowy hills, icy plains. black nostrils ringed by wet scenting the air, and hackles growing tense at what he finds. a scent he could not forget, a scent he would remember even in his dreams. blackfell's blood bleeds hot. his snarl is wet on the air, and there is temptation to rush from the side of the chieftain's wife, but he is rooted by her contemplative glance.

even still, the beast peels from her side. coming to stand at odds with his blood, eyes of red piercing through his cloak of charcoal. he snaps his teeth in demand, and resists the urge to swat the boy upside the head. what are you doing here? his demand comes in a rumbling growl.