Herbalists' Cache gloom days

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the woman strikes hard.

she strikes true.

he watches her snag the thief by the scruff. sees her pull him back, sees the muscle ripple beneath her coat; this pulls laughter from him, but not at her. it is for the squealing rogue, who snarls, but it sounds more like a whimper by the account of blackfell.

black bird surges. the hit to his gut is true but does not leave any lasting affects. he is stalwart, unmovable, and acts with haste; where she buckles him backwards by his scruff and bleeds him already, blackfell takes the advantage. his belly is left vulnerable.

teeth find the fleshy, pudgy belly. past teeth, past fat. blood rushes into his mouth, fills his cheeks, burns down his jowls in steaming rivulets. he hears the agony of the man's roaring and answers with more ripping, more jerking of his head, teeth seeking to tear and to punish. blackfell would steal back the contents he stole from his fat belly.

intestines, organs, gore. it begins to pour, and blood washes, but the man does not die yet. he must first suffer, but there is no finer joy in dislodging throat from neck. this woman would know those pleasures, while blackfell scavenged his stomach from his body.