Qeya River the dark knight

hostile. typical. all fucking blackmarch bastards were the same. so easy to rile up, and so quick to fall because of their arrogance. or was it ego? 

obviously, his cousin had plenty of both. 

emýr stands unmoving, eyes half-lidded with what may be boredom. he had no quarrel with this man—doesn't even know his name, and frankly, he doesn't care to. not now, when the man was seeing red. 

he snorts with humorless intent. "is this how you greet all kin? you don't even know my name, and here you are, threatening to feed me to the crows." he rasped. shoulders squaring further, each sinewy muscle in his frame tense. anticipating, waiting. 

"typical blackmarches. no loyalty. and what if i wished to join your pack? is this how you greet those seeking refuge, too?" he raised a brow. he'd lit the match now, and surely the man's fuse would blow.