Ravensblood Forest a man that’s down to fight

crowell’s grin sours, teeth glintin’ in the low light. patience worn thin like a ship’s hull scraped raw by reefs. they’re still standin’ here, still runnin’ their mouths like they own the damn woods.

yer bold. real bold, he mutters, voice tight, simmerin’. he stalks a slow, sharp circle around them, eyes narrowed to slits, claws digging furrows in the dirt. flame-bright eyes sear into vermouth’s steady gaze, then flick to sobeille with contempt. i like that in a way… but not enough t’ let it slide.

he jerks his head toward the murkwood trees, jaw clenched.

last chance. ye turn ‘round now, slink off with tails low, maybe we don’t hafta scrap. but if ye ain’t outta here by the next breath, ye’ll get a taste o’ what it means t’ piss off murkwood.

his lip curls, snarl building slow, deep in his chest. a warning. he glances toward meredith again, gauging her for approval—or maybe just readiness. this was about to get ugly.

yer call, mutts. make it quick.