Ravensblood Forest a man that’s down to fight

crowell’s grin stretched wider, a dangerous, mocking curve of yellowed teeth. they thought themselves clever, standing here questioning him. he liked that—liked the nerve of it! it made his blood boil in the best of ways.

neighborly? he draws with a voice rough as the sea-brine. hah! we ain’t the neighb’ly sort, lass. sure as hell not me. ‘n as fer land—nah, ye might not be standin' dead center on our turf, but yer scrapin’ too close fer comfort. that edge? consider it ours too. murkwood don’t like outsiders sniffin' round fer scraps.

he shifts with a lazy swagger, circling in a wide arc, making sure they both stayed in his sights—keeping enough distance he could react fast enough should one of 'em try something. he wasn't worried 'bout the girl, but that tall bastard might could give him a run for his money.

now, he spits foul breath, cap’n’s a mean lil’ bastard—aye, but I reckon I’m meaner. only one wolf ever bested ‘im, ‘n yer lookin’ at ‘im right now.

he stops now, and fixes the both of them with a cold, dead stare. so if ye know what’s good fer ya, ye’ll turn them pretty tails o’ yers around an’ be gone. ‘less ye fancy findin’ out just how mean i can be.