Herbalists' Cache sleeping mist

sun eater does not stand. he does not fight, only backs away. backs away, one step, two steps, putting distance between himself and blackfell. his eyes flash for this, with knowing, it is a salve that licks smooth at his burning pride, his burning arrogance. coward. he tests, finding he likes how the word fits on his tongue when wielded to sun eater's throat. yes.

he was a coward.

he calls—for gjalla, for star eater. blackfell says nothing, does nothing, while this transpires. only fixes a cold, cruel stare on the man, feeling the hatred as it flows into his veins, mixing with the hot blood that circulates through out him. poison is adrenaline and adrenaline has become addiction as it settles within him, lighting a fire beneath every nerve home to the onyx man.

words. there are many words, words that blackfell does not care for. he does not talk; this much, can be seen. sun eater plys his trade, speaking, insulting, digging his grave deeper, all the while blackfell dons the cloak of a reaper. sun eater will not go far—he will ensure this, and does so by taking a step. another step. taking back the distance he had created by wrenching the chain in his grip, the stare that burns seeking to scorch straight through the scum's good eye.

perhaps blackfell would not kill him. perhaps he would just take his remaining eye. an offering to his god.

morwenna's words do not lance, do not strike. he hears them and ignores them, ears rotating outwards, the clipped things twitching with an anger that does not wish to be contained any longer. you, he spits. capturing sun eater's stare, blowing heavy, hot breaths from his jaws and nostrils. you will address her as my queen. nothing more. this is punctuated with the click of his teeth, nothing less. then, the snap of jaws.

bow. not to him.

to her.