Qeya River the dark knight

there they are. one cut from stone and forged in fire, the other a mistress of the night. he recognizes neither, but the man who's postured and stiff reeks of crownore. 

emerald eyes narrow as he steps forward, half of him cloaked in light, the rear shrouded. a cousin, perhaps? he certainly wasn't of winterhelm blood. 

blackmarch, perhaps. his throat fills with poison. he'd never liked blackmarch.

so quick to anger, it seemed. pitiful. he hadn't even said a word. 

the woman speaks first. he regards her with a low hum, as his neck lowers and his shoulders square just slightly. readying himself, if her hound was to be unleashed. 

"passing through. smelled crownore." his voice was rough, low. there weren't many opportunities for chat up in the mountains. his eyes falls to his kin, assessing. "you," he spoke. "blackmarch? you're far from home, too. what's a crow like you doing all the way out here?" 

running from something? or someone? 

perhaps he and this cousin had something in common, though he had an inkling this reunion would be unsavory.