Bitterroot Valley [m] mourning dove

was he supposed to care who this bitch was? veksar's scowl began to stretch into a frown. he didn't know nor care who and what lived around here — he wasn't planning on staying long. nor had he been planning to run into his brother.

least of all, blackfell.

it wasn't that he hated blackfell, necessarily, but that they had nothing in common. the man was so much older than he, and even more so old-fashioned. it was like having a clone of his father living with him. all veksar could manage to muster toward him in that moment was annoyance.

don't touch me, he jerked himself away, lips split into a venomous warning snarl. ruddy eyes studied him, anticipating some form of retaliation. i left blackmarch.

why? he didn't even really know. if blackfell was to ask more about it, he didn't even know what he'd say. because he felt like it. because his head ached and his chest felt weighted; because every time he looked at either of his parents or any of his siblings there was always that kernel of disappointment and he was goddamn sick of it.

as if he'd ever admit it to himself.

veksar grumbled. what does it matter to you, anyways? it's not your business. and yours isn't mine.