Herbalists' Cache change my mind so much I can't find it

gjalla does not know when the crows had all made the collective decision to gather around the weathered rock she sat upon, shoulders curled forward, head low, but they must've made it recently, drawn in by the stench of old blood and the quiet stillness of her presence.

gjalla broods. the deer leg between her paws is the true victim of her wrath. Her teeth sink into the bone with brutal force, the marrow cracking under the pressure. It’s not hunger that drives her—not really. It’s the need to expend, to gnash and crush, to pretend that she is choosing to break something apart rather than feeling like she herself is splitting at the seams.

they hop closer, watching her with their sharp, beady eyes, their caws breaking the silence in short, staccato bursts.

she exhales sharply, ears flicking back at their noise but making no move to chase them off. the bastards were the only company that didn’t expect anything from her. they weren’t here to talk—though they certainly weren't silent—, and they weren’t here to ask her how she was doing or pry where they weren't wanted.

she hated prying.

one of them hops onto the rock beside her, bold little thing, pecking at the mangled flesh near her paw. Gjalla scowls at it but still doesn’t move.

"what the fuck are you looking at?" she mutters, voice rough, barely more than a growl.

the crow tilts its head. caws. she snorts, gaze dropping to the ground. "you better not be his."