Herbalists' Cache but my aching soul

blackfell relished the way she met him, force with force, neither yielding nor shying from his challenge. this—this was why he loved her. why he would always love her. because she was not made to be still, to be docile. she was made for this, for the fight, for the fire.

her weight collided with his chest, knocking the breath from him in a short, sharp burst. he staggered, but planting himself firm against the ground.

and you are still as sharp-tongued as ever! he rumbles, voice laden with grit.

her teeth snap for his ruff; he lets her grasp her hold, let her think she had him, before twisting sharply, his own teeth flashing for the thick fur at her nape.