Qeya River hunger consuming

his teeth clicked.

she needled him. picking at old wounds, probing where the blood still ran hot. she was untrustworthy, this one, with her smirks and taunts, and wearing a cloak of falsehood to spray her scent.

blackfell’s gaze flicked to her then, and found the sight of her hiking her leg laughable. he decided then it was better to let jabs roll off his back rather than they strike true.

stay as long as you like. a murmur from a cage of teeth. almost indifferent. almost. truly? he wished this was the last he’d see of her—yet knew that was a fantasy.

he jerks his head, clearly annoyed, clearly bothered, and his ears swivel to attune with the sounds of the river. it was furious today, sloshing with a fervor. blocks of ice riding the churning currents. blackbird grunts a quiet complaint as his footfalls remain muted thuds, before spraying an arc of piss himself, painting tree and dead brush.