Qeya River the dark knight

there is no urgency in emýr's emerald, steely gaze. only defiance as the two crownore's come face to face. his cousin is seething, furious. it nearly makes him laugh. 

his tail lashes at his hind, fueled by anticipation and energy that sizzles in his veins. he isn't angry, he isn't snarling and posturing like this fucking hound. he holds his air of nobility, if not only to show that he, unlike his cousin, could keep his fucking cool. 

his father his mentioned. it makes his teeth itch and ache. the tongue of their home is spoken, and his eyes narrow. his cousin has no right to speak it, and emýr imagines what it'd be like to steal the tongue from those jaws he keeps snapping. 

he remembers now, who this man is. the stories he'd heard in winterhelm about the king of blackmarch that'd been exiled. how pitiful.

who is this traitor to act so high and mighty? who is this dog to act as if his blood is purer than emýr's? 

þú talar eins og þú sért hinn síðari. eins og þú gætir gengið á vatni. en þú ert ekkert annað en helvítis óhreinindin undir fótunum á mér.

the words are spoken calmly, his voice dark. 

he smiles then, tight-lipped and taunting. 

konungur gleymir stað í einn dag. þú varst í útlegð, kæri frændi. fólkið þitt yfirgaf þig. þú ert fokking ekkert. og hér ertu, felur þig eins og hugleysinginn sem þú ert.