Ravensblood Forest a man that’s down to fight

meredith had been watching.

leaned against a jagged outcrop, ears half-lidded, she let crowell run his mouth because of course he would. he thrived on the push and pull of tension, on the barest hint of a challenge. predictable. but entertaining.

the intruders had some nerve, she’d give them that. and the darker one—mouth on him, didn't he?—had the sharp wit to match. but words were just words. they meant fuck all when it came down to it.

second in command.

meredith scoffed, stepping forward at last, slow and etching, letting the weight of her presence press into the space between them. she didn’t need theatrics. didn’t need crowell’s bravado, or lingering eyes.

he speaks ‘cause he can. her voice was steady, cold amusement laced through it. she glanced at crowell, then back at the two strangers, eyes narrowing. and if our cap’n took issue, he’d have shut him up himself.

she rolled her shoulders, tilting her head just enough to crack the tension in her neck. but maybe y’wanna meet ‘im for yerselves? see if yer as clever when he’s the one lookin’ at ya. she let the words hang, a challenge, an invitation. she didn’t care which they chose.