Qeya River hunger consuming

he feeds into her complex. fixating a singular red eye on her, letting it fall upon the dark mug she wears. seeing for the first time glacial eyes, seeing the ambition that burns in them. blackfell knows it. knows that kind of need.

but she will find no power here. not in saatsine. the totem is unmovable, the climb impossible. blackfell has learned little of sun eater, but knows enough: the man only cares for himself. by extension, what he deems his. his wife, his kids. his relatives.

he lives, breathes, lanzadoii.

so he snorts, rather bluntly, in her face, all while continuing their languid walk. now it grows faster, strong legs etching a path onwards, curling around the territory he has come to both loathe for what it is and desire for himself all the same. you will only ever be neither. a cruel grin then, one nagruk is lucky to have earned. this woman is not one he would ever call a friend—and she would never come close enough to being a threat that he might consider her an enemy.

but perhaps he is thawing—if only to make this interaction less miserable. what more is there to see? his voice is a bored rasp. it is just ice, water, trees. what you see is what saatsine roams.