Dawnlark Plains θ

blackfell inhales deeply as the norseman comes. there is distance between them but it is not angry, does not fizzle with the tragedy of war. the onyx man extends his neck, sniffing his scent then, smelling what the man had hunted in the past days.

blackfell turns his eyes skyward, to see the circling of the raven. it swoops, he follows, licking at his jowls as he observes. the raven does not cry. does not sing. he does not warn.

blackfell turns eyes back to skorpa. i am not. he corrects with a click of his teeth, turning to look upon the path he had weaved through the snow of the plains. tracks, leading to him should someone follow. he swats at them, with snow, covering the last of them. no longer. blackfell blows a breath.

i challenged the chieftain and he would not fight. but then his wife, blackfell's eyes seem to flash with a sorrow at the mention of her, she goes into labor and i spare his life. for her. a mercy he might not give again, should they cross.

we hunt. he raises his head in curiosity.