Whitebark Stream crawling back to you

fluid timeline!! will figure out placement later

shroud in smoke, he is announced by the flapping of wings. the guttural croak of a raven, that soars past and above the woman, dipping first to nip in harass upon her ear.
blackfell comes from the brush that guards the stream, dark countenance bleeding with a tension that clings heavily to him. it is in his muscle, his blood, his very being. muscles twitch to life, thrumming with a barely held power at his flanks, at his shoulders.
crimson eyes swipe upon the backside of the silver woman. her words strike the most; the name she utters like the unsheathing of a longsword, aimed at the exposed throat. blackfell feels a dark tremble. he feels a tide wash over him, crashing inwards. threatening anger.
lunarre. her name is spoken not like a prayer but like a insult. it is spoken with disgust, it is putrid and it is bile in its execution. he looks upon her like she is loathsome; and that is what she is. he walks alongside her, the distance between carefully held taut by a tension that may snap at any second, and the son of nemos looks upon his aunt woefully.
i thought of you when i killed your son. a lie, for @Emýr still drew breath—somewhere. mercy blackfell would not show him again.