Bitterroot Valley [m] mourning dove

veksar stops. sheathing his sword, stepping away with panting breaths that fill the air between them. blackfell returns the gesture, the wave of a white flag, turning on thick, north hailing paws and moving away from the boy. a smug grin to cut the black of his face.

he huffs, blowing steamed breath from his jaws. that still itch to grind fur between them. and there in the distance he sees a speck.

fuck. is all the man says, ears violently twitching, thrashing atop his head. they were just filing in one by one. his mind drifts to the black northman he'd seen hours prior, within the glacier tucked above qeya river. undoubtedly crownore—but not one of his, and that put him in grim standing automatically with the blackbird.

he stares in the distance at their sister, trying to make sense of it. the muscles along his body twitching with the aftermath of a good fight that didn't last long enough.