Ravensblood Forest a man that’s down to fight

crowell spits on the ground, a loud ptch, tongue darting across his teeth with a sneer that’s damn near feral.

aye, cocky lil’ fucks, a crass mutter. his flame-bright eyes locked on their retreating forms, beady malice present in both sockets. got th’ tail in th’ air like he’s king o’ th’ fuckin’ woods. pissin’ prints in our dirt—hah! fool’s got guts, i’ll give ‘im that. dumb guts.

he snorts, glance flicking to meredith with eyes gleaming of twisted amusement. yer right, they ain’t worth shite... reckon if they sniff ‘round again, though, i’ll carve a map on ‘is hide so he remembers which lands t’ stay off.

he shifts and with a swaggering step, goes forward, paws crushing snow like bones.

last from crowell!