Bitterroot Valley [m] mourning dove

it is like the tangle of two lions, fighting for the lands they stood upon. the clashing antlers of two stags, seeking the approval of onlooking does they might find in their clutch. the mortal dance of two sons vying for the throne of their father—but at the same time, it was far from that.

there was no throne to be had. no women to impress. it is simply the war between brothers.

he does not expect veksar to fight him. but it seems blackfell has strummed the right chord, and his blood is turning against him, donning teeth as blade and his own body as shield. there comes a loud, boisterous laugh from the belly of the beast. veksar grapples him, blackfell feels his strength, but he matches it—and surpasses it with his own. shoving forwards with hind-legs, nails shredding mud beneath icy snow.

blackfell aims a bite for the side of veksar's face. their teeth clash, the momentary strike of two swords, then they pull apart. blackfell had no intentions of drawing his brother's blood—that was for veksar to bring to fruition. if he feels enough disdain, enough wrath. momentarily raised to their hindlegs, muscled crownores warring with one another for the upperhand.

blackfell headbutts the bastard, forehead to nose, laughing all the while. he cannot stop laughing. the joy of it! he hasn't had a good fight in sometime. he cannot hardly be angry. but his brother should not mistake it for weakness: he would—not gladly, though—pummel veksar into the dirt beneath him and leave him for the crows to judge.