Herbalists' Cache supposed to be on stage, but fuck it, i need a minute

gjalla doesn’t move when he shoves past her, doesn’t even flinch—just watches the crimson smear of dried blood across his fur as he brushes by. for a moment, she considers letting him go. letting him sulk and stew in whatever gods-forsaken pit he was about to drag himself into, covered in someone's spilled guts.

she does not—it raises too many unanswered questions, and it would only sever the bond futher. something about it—about him, covered in gore, reeking of old blood and sweat, unhappy—unsettles her. irritates her like an itch beneath the skin she cannot reach.

so she turns on her heel and follows. 

"ishmira told me she saw you covered in blood." that, most certainly, did not happen. a blatant lie, delivered flatly, effortlessly. too practiced at deceit for it not to be. "i see she wasn’t exaggerating."

gjalla does not wait for him to acknowledge her, nor does she give him a choice. Her nose judges the thick ruff of his scruff, a gentle touch, a request rather than a command. her voice is softer when she speaks: "come."