Qeya River mockingbird

it is a call he would know in his sleep. the call of kin is not one he will ignore; be it wretched cousin or beloved brother.

he moves slowly down the icy hill, paws firing off muted thuds against the frost-hardened ground. the trees thin, the river comes into view, and there—veksar.

blackfell parts the treeline, breath fogging in the cold. he chuffs a greeting without warmth.

crimson eyes watching him with that constant detached glower. he speaks as he nears, drawing himself shoulder to flank with veksar, looking over shoulder at him. you hate it here. he observes. as much as i do.