Herbalists' Cache supposed to be on stage, but fuck it, i need a minute
Loner
mother winter.
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gjalla had done well avoiding him. Or maybe he had done well avoiding her. either way, whatever they were doing was working. until now, of course.

she smells him before she sees him—before she rounds the bend and nearly collides with him, the space between them narrowing too fast for her to turn away without making it obvious. gjalla refuses to look like she’s running. not from him. (—though she certainly was)

her step falters, just slightly, before she plants her paws firm, gaze drawn up to meet his, and for a moment, there is nothing but silence. it is a heavy one—stifling. 

she should say something. acknowledge him, apologize to him, but all that lingers on her tongue is venom, and she is tired of fighting. so instead, she exhales sharply through her nose, brows furrowing.

of course it would be like this.

"blackfell."

join ...

fluent in norse, common, and valyrian. speaks lanzadoii loosely.
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