Qeya River star

guard hairs stand on end upon his backside, coated in onyx and softened by the felt of silver, like the iron deposits deep rooted in the rocky lands of his home. he thinks of home; the crags. he thinks of youth. when he had been a young man, and he had first seen the princess.

it would have never crossed his mind that they might one day be standing where they did now.

he watches her. he feels seen by her, in ways that spark discomfort in his chest. this closeness, this lull that had fallen between them—it was not right. it was something from years past, from the heights of youth, from when he was a hot-blooded young man and she was a beautiful girl.

before she had been consumed by the politics he so loathed. and so mention of gjalla briefly brings a grimace to him, eyes dropping from hers and searching for anything but. into the distance, into the ice, into the mountains beyond.

is she? he feigns laughter when he asks, and then turns red eyes to her again. he cannot stop himself from voicing what he thinks in this moment. perhaps you would have been the lucky one, had things been different. but before either of them can react to what he has said, blackfell draws himself away. inhaling a cold, crisp breath from air that is not filled with her fragrant scent.